


Let Me In, Even If Just to Bore Me

by murg



Category: Original Work
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Bigotry & Prejudice, Child Neglect, Codependency, Consent Issues, Consent Play, Cultural Differences, Culture Shock, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Femdom, Gender Role Reversal, Interracial Relationship, Language Barrier, Mental Instability, Misogyny, Non-Sexual Submission, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved, Trauma, Unreliable Narrator, Unresolved Tension, Worldbuilding, i tried to tag the major concerns, of all varieties
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2020-06-25 12:02:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 106,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19745350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murg/pseuds/murg
Summary: Polly and I have a complicated relationship at the best of times. The scandal surrounding my latest publication isn’t making it any easier on either of us.





	1. Bismaché

**Author's Note:**

> Title subject to change. I'm not sure if I'll post the whole story to AO3. Maybe. Depends how I feel. I'm still editing other parts. Thanks for reading, regardless. It means a lot to me.

At home, the women always sit at the head of the table. Here, women don’t even eat with us. It isn’t an easy change. It’s more than a little mortifying, seeing Polly a room away from me. I feel like a dog untethered from its owner, surrounded by much larger dogs. Back home, I would never eat before Polly. That isn’t how it’s done.

“The papers are rotten,” Franzi says to me, amicable and oblivious.

“Right.” My tongue is stiff, my eyes trained on Polly’s laughing face in the kitchen. _Save me. Come take me away. In your apartment, we eat the way we eat at home. Please take me away from this place._

The manners in this place are shit. Polly might be able to stomach it, but I can’t handle the disrespect. Even if our relationship is complicated at the best of times, a woman like Polly just shouldn’t be treated like that in polite company.

The world is different, here, right down to their cutlery. Franzi eats with the left fork and the left knife, metal utensils with different lengths and prongs. “Don’t get me wrong--Sofie loves to talk about the papers,” he continues, after chewing. “But I’m not into politics. I’d rather read the Sports section.”

“Mmhm.” I can’t really read the newspaper at all. The script differences between our respective languages are very subtle, but they’re enough to bar me from comprehending too much.

Embarrassing. People consider me highly literate, but they don’t realize that only Polly makes me literate in Standard. She’s assimilated quite well. I’m not excessively bitter about that. I’m appropriately bitter, I guess. She both is and isn’t the girl I used to know, growing up in Kuk.

The girl I knew in Kuk would never eat in the kitchen.

“We should go to a game, sometime,” Franzi says. “You’ve never been to a game, have you?”

“Oh. Ah, no. I haven’t.”

He bobs his head, considering. “Well, the home team--the Bismaché Bears--is terrible. They suck, actually. But sometimes the state-level teams play in the,” he says a word I don’t know, “and those are pretty good games. Poonst and Sudorta are a great match-up.”

“Uh huh.” I crane my neck, watching Polly lean over the kitchen table, her voice faint and murmuring. She’s talking to Sofie Schotek, Franzi’s wife. Schotek is an acclaimed biographer and historian. She’s eating in the kitchen. I feel hot and faint, sick with a nervous revulsion.

“Hey,” Franzi laughs, knocking my shoulder. He touches me, without any permission. He doesn’t ask me or Polly if he can touch me. It’s an easy thing, to him. I cringe and try to turn the expression into a smile. “Lighten up. I’ll definitely take you to a game. It’ll be fun. I can bring some of my pals. A guy’s night. It’d be a good change of pace for you. We can sightsee and stuff. We can check out the best spots in Bismaché. How long you even been here?”

“Um. Four weeks, now. About.”

“See, and you’ve hardly gone anywhere. Basically just here and the library, isn’t that right?”

“I. Yes.” I wrack my brain for the name of a tourist attraction Polly and I’ve passed by plenty of times. Right outside the central train station. She told me its name, but it escapes me. “I saw a big statue, near the city center.”

“Old Multke,” he says. “That big statue?”

“No, ah. It’s not a statue. It’s a big. Um. It’s a big metal thing. Not a statue.”

“The Remembrance Monument.” He nods. “Cool. It’s kind of an eyesore, isn’t it? Just a big metal slab in the middle of the city. Sofie helped with the design and I said to her, ‘See, this is why historians aren’t architects.’ Ha ha!”

I stare at him.

Franzi grins at me, unaware. I wish I could be so unaware.

“A game.” My throat creaks. “I would like to see a game.”

“Sure! Definitely. And, between you and me, I got--” Words I don’t know. “--one of the ticket vendors, so it should be no problem getting a deal on some nicer seats. I’ll have to introduce you to some of my friends before that, if you want.”

“Sure.”

“They’re good guys! You’ll like them. You’re quiet, you know? But they’re the kinds of dudes who’ll bring you out of your shell. They’re friendly, they’re great.”

I nod. My shell. I feel like a hermit crab trying to make do, overstuffed inside its cracking home.

Franzi touches my arm again. I glance at the kitchen. “You want a beer or anything?”

“Ah. No.” I say it too quickly, too tersely, on the border between fear and impoliteness. I can’t tell him he needs to check with Polly. I can’t just say that. Not here. “No, thanks. I’m pretty tired.”

“Long night? I get that.”

“Yeah...”

“Hey, man. We’re friends now, so I understand. You don’t need to be so shy about stuff.”

I’m not shy, I want to yell. I’m _normal_. But I would never say that. I _couldn’t_ say it. It’s more than shyness. My words are uncertain and stumbling, anyways, leaking out of my mouth like shivering lines of drool. Forgive me if I hate sounding like a moron whenever I open my mouth. Polly isn’t here to tell me what to say, or when to speak. Polly is in the other room, in the kitchen, eating like she isn’t from the most esteemed house of Kuk, eating in the kitchen like a dog. I feel weak, thinking about it. Women don’t eat in the kitchen, in Kuk. Women eat at the head of the table.

“Your wife’s a real slavedriver, I hear. She carts you to the library almost every other day, Sofie says. Is that for publisher deals or just research stuff?”

“Ah. We go there to...to research,” I say, unsteady. There are two words for ‘research,’ and I don’t know the difference between them. My thoughts form into knots of anxiety. “I’m writing again. The Free Press desires which I write a new piece.”

“And she’s working on it with you?” he says. “That’s neat. She’s not much of a writer, she’s told me. She says you write great stuff. She must be your biggest fan, since she translates all of it.”

“I don’t trust anyone else,” I say. “She is the best translator.” I wouldn’t consider Polly my _biggest fan._ I don’t consider her a fan of anything I do. I wouldn’t dream of going to the library without Polly. I have such complicated feelings about Polly, a deep ambivalence about the circumstances of our relationship, but I find that living here has made me strangely defensive of the arrangement. I used to sometimes feel a frightening helplessness about our situation, but now that it isn’t normal--now that it’s the only thing left of _home--_ I cling to it desperately. I was a different man before I came here. I was a very different husband. Maybe Polly prefers this new me, the me that always asks for permission without disdain. Maybe she loathes it. I couldn’t say.

But even in the moments where I was keenly distressed by her, I never would have dreamed of treating her in any way close to the way the women here are expected to act. I know my place. It’s a cool comfort.

“I’d hope she’s your best translator. She’s your wife.” Franzi takes a drink. “I’m sure she tells you when you wrote something she doesn’t like, too. That’s wives.”

I laugh, loud and awkward and ringing. I glance at the kitchen in terror, but Polly isn’t in sight. I feel sick, without her face to latch onto. I probably shouldn’t have laughed at that. I don’t think Franzi was insulting her, though.

“Of course.” My throat lies a little looser. “She thinks I write too many metaphor.”

“Metaphors,” he corrects in a friendly tone. I flush. “Well, tell her to shove it. You’re the writer, not her. But I guess that’s the artist’s problem, huh?”

“I guess.” I open my mouth, uncertain what I want to leave it. There are a lot of things I want to say to Franzi. I want to ask him why the forks have such strange prongs, here. I want to ask him how he reads the newspaper. I want to ask him why his wife eats in the kitchen.

“Waldi.” Polly stands in the doorway. She has her coat on, hair tucked behind her ears. My unfortunate support pillar. She speaks Standard Argrean with no accent. “We’ve got to get home. It’s getting dark.”

I stand up, my chair snarling against the floor. Sofie Schotek prowls behind Polly’s shoulder, watching me with cold, inquisitive eyes. Franzi gets up leisurely, walking behind his chair and pushing it in.

I want to ask him if he married Schotek out of love, if they marry out of love here, or if they make the sorts of arrangements we make back home. The sorts of arrangements that even back home are almost never heard of. Five-hundred Kolchens and twenty goats. A fair exchange.

“See you later,” Franzi says, smiling. “I’ll call you, yeah? Or maybe Sofie can call. We’ll see. I’ll let you know about the game.”

“The game,” I echo. “Yes. Thank you.”

Polly’s at my shoulder, hand a few breaths away from mine. We don’t touch. Polly understands my preferences, and she respects them. I have to trust her to respect them. I don’t have a choice.

We leave the warmth of their apartment, stumbling down the slick steps of their brownstone. I glance up at the gray sky. It’s almost always raining, here. I don’t know why.

They call Bismaché the Center City. I assume this is because it’s the capital and located almost in the exact center of Argrea, but the longer I’m here, the more I question this simple answer. Bismaché seems to move on its own axis, with its own independent weather patterns and color schemes and linguistic trends. Everything is so different, here. Different people clamor to this city from every corner of the country, Polly tells me, yet everyone seems exactly the same to me. It’s as if the city sucks people into its orbit and spits them all out in its gray, stilted likeness.

I’m not sure. I feel as though I’ve been dumped on a foreign planet. It rains, almost every day. What sort of place rains almost every day? We’re nowhere near the ocean.

“You did really well,” Polly says. “I heard you laughing with Franzi.”

“Sure,” I say, shying away when her hand almost brushes against my arm. I had laughed, hadn’t I? I’d laughed at a joke he had made about Polly. But it hadn’t been rude. At least, I don’t think it had been rude. I duck my head, feeling a little lost. “I don’t like how they eat, there.”

“That’s how they all eat, here.”

“Ugh.”

She offers me a tight grin. “We don’t have to eat like that at home, at least.”

“Your apartment.”

“Right.”

I sigh, too loud and ragged. It’s embarrassing. It’s a sigh of relief, air escaping from my lungs like dissonant music. I catch Polly examining me with curiosity, and I try to dampen the anger crawling at my insides. I prefer Polly’s company to anyone else in this city. To anyone else in the world, maybe. I prefer to think it’s because of familiarity, rather than any real emotional connection. That’s what I prefer to think, at least.

Polly has no strong illusions about our relationship. That’s why I cannot forgive her. If she understands what we are, she has no right to keep me. It might even be illegal, in places like this.

But we aren’t from places like this. A blessing and a curse.

I wouldn’t ask to leave, anyways.

“Franzi wants to take you to a game?” she prompts.

“I think so. Would you allow that?”

She shrugs. “Of course. You can do whatever you want, Wally. You know that.”

I bite my tongue, unwilling to argue. I don’t know that. I had half-hoped she would veto it. I don’t want to go out with Franzi and his friends. It isn’t that I don’t trust Franzi; he’s much more trustworthy than his wife, on an interpersonal level. I just don’t know how to conduct myself in this warped version of polite society. Franzi never holds his tongue. No one here does. I know nothing about their sports, and I have no respective vocabulary for it. Maybe Polly can teach me, if I do go to that game with him.

“I don’t know anything about the sports around here.”

“It’s similar to lacrosse,” she says. “You know lacrosse?”

“Sort of.”

“We can talk about it later, if you want. I’ll show you where it is in the newspaper, so you can recognize the shorthand symbols.”

“Okay.”

I can feel her hand, swinging in the air next to mine. Neither of us touches, though. It’s better, that way.

\- - -

Polly unlocks the door to her apartment, yawning into the darkness. There’s the back of her couch, by the fireplace, green and looming in the low light. My eyes dart to the doorways, out of reflex. Her little kitchen, unoccupied, the bathroom, and our separate bedrooms. There’s a small balcony off of her bedroom, but I’ve never seen it. Not that it’s worth much to me; Polly’s apartment is situated on the fifth floor.

“I’ll eat you out,” I blurt, neck hot.

Polly stares at me.

“As a thank you,” I say weakly, “for. Getting me out of there.”

She shakes her head, frowning. “God, you are so weird.” She turns away.

I feel a little broken at that, drifting and frightened. Sometimes, she really hurts my feelings, though I can’t blame her. I don’t know how I should be acting, now that we’re living together again. Alone. It isn’t ideal.

Everything I do seems inappropriate. Untoward. Too extreme or too withdrawn. I’m not a natural. Maybe I could have loved Polly better, if I hadn’t been forced. The idea sits in my throat like rotten bile. It’s a despairing thought.

My knees knock as I stare at her back. She flicks a light on, casting the living room into shades of yellow and ocher. You’ve had a long day,” she says. “Are you going to go to bed?”

“I, um.” I swallow, parched. _Polly is pretty,_ I tell myself. She has almond-shaped eyes and sleek, inky hair. She’s a little waif-ish, but so was everyone we grew up with. _Polly is pretty,_ I understand, staring at me with discerning eyes. Polly’s done a lot for me. It’s hard to be grateful, considering our circumstances, but it’s true. I should be very grateful. Polly has done so much for me. She never lied about having a room for me. It’s my own room.

“You have good reasons to not like me,” she says lightly.

“I don’t not like you,” I say, before I can think better of it.

She shrugs, eyes trailing over the wall behind me. “I didn’t say you don’t.”

There are so many things I could say. I can’t say any of them, though. It isn’t appropriate. I want to fold onto the floor and lie there, until my heart stops. There’s a strange desire in me that I can’t place. I can’t explain it. I feel deeply unsettled. Dissatisfied. Hollow.

“You’re in one of your moods.”

I blink.

Polly jerks her head. “Just go to sleep, Waldi.”

I duck my head in concession. “Yes, Polly.”

She doesn’t touch me, as I slide past her to my room. I almost wish she would. I almost wish she would reach out and grab me. Anything, just some point of contact.

But Polly will never touch me without my permission.

That’s a good thing.

I close the door to my room, pressing my back against the wood. It’s dark. My room has no windows. I stand in the darkness, unmoving. I listen for movement, but I don’t hear any. Polly is just standing in the living room. I wonder what she’s thinking, and then I don’t.

I push away from the door, unbuttoning my pants. I shake them off, stumbling toward my bed. This is my room. Polly had it all ready for me, when I arrived. I’m still so relieved to have my own room. She could have lied. She could have lied about everything, but she didn’t. She only ever told me the truth.

Isn’t that something to be thankful for?

\- - -

When we were kids, Polly and I used to walk to school together. I’d skid down the dirt roads of Mount Echmi, where my father’s house resided, and we’d meet at the gate by Effler’s farm, at the base of the mountain. It was a twenty-minute walk for me. Polly’s house was about ten minutes from the base. Effler’s farm was in the opposite direction of the school, yet she always waited for me. I never really understood why she went through the trouble.

“Do you want to come to my house, after school?” Polly had asked me, after months of daily walks. We’d known each other since the beginning of the year. I was seven, and it was my first year of schooling. Polly was a year above me and she had just turned nine.

It was a strange request. It unnerved me. We didn’t know each other well enough to see each other’s houses, I felt. And Polly was a Hochsprach, the eminent house in the northern Kolnosk countryside. I was not socially savvy, but I was aware of the implications. I would have to be formal with her family, and I knew I would be fumbling and stilted and unsure how to act. I wanted to say, “No.”

I was desperate to please, however. I used to be a chronic people-pleaser. I had my psychological holes I needed to fill, like any aching child. My father hardly acknowledged my existence, after all, and most times I felt more like a specter than any sentient creature. That was the natural order. I felt like anyone who so much as looked at me was wasting time. I was meant to be invisible.

Polly looked at me, though. Polly looked at me like I was special.

I didn’t _like_ this, necessarily. I didn’t...dislike it, either, though. I often found this treatment terrifying. I was never sure how to receive it, let alone reciprocate. So I didn’t acknowledge it. It was the safest option. I really wasn’t sure what any of it meant, at the time.

But I was a people-pleaser. And Polly was my top priority, because she was the only person whom I seemed capable of pleasing at all. Polly was, well, she was my only...

“Sure,” I had said, instead.

Polly smiled at me. The gesture sent a miasmic dopamine rush straight to my head. At that moment, I really would have done anything for her. It was the first time I had ever felt such a terrifying sensation, like my gut slowly unraveling and splitting into pieces.

It didn’t hurt. It didn’t hurt at all, and that was what made it scary.

“I told my mom all about you,” she said, adjusting her pack strap. “My brother met you, actually. You were in the church choir for a year, yeah?”

“Um. I was,” I admitted. “But only for a year. Last year.”

“Why did you quit?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer her. The truth offered uncomfortable revelations about my home life. “I needed to help out more at home,” I offered, a feeble middle ground.

“Right,” she said, before falling silent. Our steps crunched against the arid ground, leaving no footprints among the windswept rocks. Polly never pushed me on anything. I was the only person who pushed me. And I pushed me a lot. I was desperate for some scrap of human contact, some point of connection.

So I went to the Hochsprach house, even though I dreaded it. My father didn’t care, either way. He never cared what I did. He didn’t do anything. He used to hardly get up from bed early enough to feed the goats. Then, a year ago, he stopped getting up early at all. So it didn’t matter. I went to the Hochsprach house, because Polly asked me. Polly, the only person who acknowledged my existence.

I still remember Nene Hochsprach’s eyes, when she saw me slink through her front door. Glittering, reptilian, and interested. Polly’s mother appraised me as one does bruised crops at the farmer’s market. And, even at the age of seven, I could feel her gaze like an oily stain over my skin.

She pitied me.

\- - -

“Free Press called,” Polly says, leaning her hip against the bathroom doorframe.

“What about it?” I grab my toothbrush from the edge of the sink.

“They want to meet up and talk about the upcoming publication.”

“I thought it was done.”

“It is. Just some nitpicking.”

“They could just do that over phone, couldn’t they?”

Polly shrugs in the mirror. I turn on the sink. The faucet coughs up water after a moment, slightly chalky in color.

“They had some complaints,” she says, crossing her arms, “with the content.”

“The content,” I echo.

“Another editor picked up some issues with the subject.” She cants her head against the wood, chewing on her lower lip. “I yelled at him for half an hour, this morning.”

I can’t help but frown into the mirror. “Polly.”

“They’re just paranoid about nonexistent problems! It’s bullshit.”

“Does the story even make sense in another language?”

She waves her arm dismissively. “I made it make sense. Don’t worry.”

I cock my head, drumming the fingers of my free hand on the sink rim. “I mean, culturally. Clearly, multiple editors have flagged it. I just think, I dunno. It’s...problematic?”

Polly snorts. “It’s a good story. It’s supposed to be uncomfortable. They’re just paranoid about getting slammed by the censorship laws.”

“That makes sense.”

“It’s _stupid._ This isn’t any worse than the rabbit story, and they had no issues with that.”

“That was also years ago.”

“Two years ago. Not a long time.”

“That might be a long time for the laws,” I point out, reaching for the toothpaste. “I don’t keep track of those things, though.”

“It’s just stupid,” she groans, staring at the ceiling with glazed eyes. “They already contracted you for another story.”

I hum, running my toothbrush under the stream. “And I’m already working on a new story, so that works out.”

“You’ve been writing like crazy, lately.”

“I go through phases.”

“I know, but.” She pushes herself off of the doorway. “Wally. I just.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, looking down at the sink. “I feel fine. Thanks for talking to Free Press for me.”

“Of course. You know I’m always happy to advocate for you, right?”

“Mmhm.”

I can hear the hesitation in Polly’s inward breath. I plug my mouth with the toothbrush, trying to brush loudly enough to deter her from saying anything unpleasant. It’s a vain effort.

“Um. Wally, about last night.”

“Mm,” I mumble loudly, brushing my teeth.

“Look, I just want to put it out there. I was really uncomfortable, but I get that it’s. You know, it’s. I don’t want you to feel like... Just.”

“Mmmm.”

She sighs. “Whatever. Sofie’s coming over today. We’re going to start doing tutoring here, instead of at the office. You’re fine with that?”

I nod.

“Of course. Right.” I hear the slide of her skin. She’s rubbing her face, from the muffled sound of her voice. “Do we need to go grocery shopping?”

“No,” I say around my toothbrush. I spit, foam speckling the sink bowl until it slides down the drain. “I planned everything out for the next week. We have a lot of leftovers. I’ll cook tomorrow. Is that alright?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

There’s silence, save for the water running into the sink.

Unsaid bitterness swells in my chest, directionless and anxious. I don’t know why. It’s difficult to keep tied down, sometimes. But I feel bad, because Polly did a very good thing for me today. Polly does very good things for me, every day.

“Thank you,” I say, nodding my head. “Thank you for talking to Free Press, as well. I really owe you, Polly.”

“You don’t owe me.” There’s a strange tone to her voice. “Why are you like this? Seriously, Waldi. Just. Knock it off.”

“Okay.”

“You’ll be here when Sofie comes over, right?”

“Of course.” Where else would I go? I stare the water shooting down the drain. There’s something strangely mollifying about wasting water.

Polly’s footsteps are heavy behind me, echoing in the small space. I don’t look up. I can feel the heat of her body against my back, but we aren’t touching. Polly doesn’t touch me without permission. I swallow thickly, gripping the sink. The toothbrush clatters, trapped between the porcelain and the meat of my palm.

“Hey,” she murmurs. “It’s okay.”

Is it?

“You want me to get you something?”

I shake my head, closing my eyes. I realize I’m breathing hard. Embarrassing. My skin feels warm and tight. My gums tingle.

“Okay. I’ve got to shower,” she says. “So I’m going to get in the shower, soon.”

“Oh.” My voice is throaty. I sound sick. I _feel_ sick. I don’t know why. I unlatch my claws from the sink and straighten my spine. Opening my eyes, they catch on Polly’s in the mirror. Her eyes are dark, like the unsettled mud at the bottom of a deep pond. I never really know what she’s thinking, even when she tries to tell me. “Okay. I’m. I’ll, ah. Can I get anything, you know, prepared for...you and. Schotek?”

“I don’t think so,” she says, still looking at me through the mirror. “I’ll let you know. Stick around for a bit.”

“St-stick, ah--”

“When she comes. I don’t want to be rude to her, after all, if she does need anything.”

I swallow again. “Of course.”

“I’d like some toast and coffee, if that’s alright. Before she comes. I didn’t get breakfast yet.”

“Okay. I’ll do that, when you get out. Of the shower.” I duck my head, turning around. I watch Polly’s slippers shuffle away, allowing me space. She’s wearing her silk sleeping shift under her bath robe, the fabric brushing against her calves. I lick the roof of my mouth, cringing. I didn’t wash my mouth out. “I’ll, um.”

Polly doesn’t say anything.

“I’ll just...go...” I slither toward the doorway, taking a few steadying breaths.

Closing the door behind me, I can still hear the water running into the sink. I close my eyes and lean my head against the wood, until Polly turns it off.

\- - -

“Could you get us some coffee?”

I get out of my chair, moving toward the kitchen. Polly and Sofie Schotek are talking, in the living room. She’s teaching her how to read in Kolnoskan. Apparently Schotek’s going to an archives in our state’s capital--Rigàna, Kolnosk--in the coming months.

They’re talking about history. I can’t understand most of it. Something about national changes. It’s very deep and complex, I’m sure. They’re both highly educated women. I set the percolator on the stove, flicking the gas for a moment before turning on the burner.

I shift onto the balls of my feet, waiting. Very deep stuff, they must be talking about. I’m not terribly intelligent, myself; if they’d been speaking in Kukisch, it would have hardly made a difference. I’m hardly considered an intellectual, even in rural Kuk, or anywhere else in Kolnosk. Such as it is, they’re just white noise.

That’s depressing, isn’t it? Big ideas, and they’re nothing but gibberish to me.

The percolator burbles.

“Sofie takes her coffee black,” Polly calls, craning her neck to look at me through the doorway.

“’Coffee’?” Schotek echoes, with a shaky accent.

“How you like your coffee,” Polly says, in Standard Argrean. We usually just call it Standard. I don’t know what’s so standard about it. It isn’t standard, back home.

I pour two coffees, leaving one black. Polly likes her coffee with sugar, no milk. Two spoonfuls. The taste is abhorrent. That’s what she prefers, though, so that’s what I give her.

They have notebooks on the coffee table, listing different Kolnoskan symbol vocabulary. They’re big, important words, like ‘government-sanctioned, verified documents repository.’

I set their coffees on the table. Schotek looks up, startled. I turn my cheek away, out of reflex. “Thanks,” she says.

“You’re welcome,” I reply. I straighten my back. Polly doesn’t ask for anything else, so I start to walk toward my room.

“Just a second,” Polly says, picking up her notebook.

I stand behind the couch, waiting.

“Why don’t you sit down.” She gestures beside her on the sofa. I sit. She turns back to Schotek, speaking Standard. The syllables slip out of her mouth rapidly. She taps at the different symbols in her notebook, probably translating them for her. Schotek is taking notes.

The page holds a fair amount of Kukisch dialect. I’ve always been under the impression Kukisch sounds a bit hick-ish to Rigàna natives. It’s a mumbling, jostled brand of Kolnoskan. I understand that Polly must know better than me, though.

I cast my attention out the window, at the black cars on the road. They’re almost all black. At home, cars are rare and come in all sorts of colors. My father’s truck was baby blue. There’s something attractive about a street full of black cars, I think, but that doesn’t mean I necessarily like it. It’s aesthetic, but it isn’t beautiful.

I don’t hate it, though. It’s just different.

Polly’s hand comes down on the sofa, startling me. She holds up her notebook, speaking to me. “Maybe you can help us.”

“I can try.”

“You see this?” She points to the shorthand symbol for ‘government building.’ I hum. “Is this pronounced any differently than this?” It’s the alphabet-written form of ‘government building.’

“Yes,” I answer, after saying them in my head a few times.

She groans.

Schotek is watching us, frowning. I blink. I wonder how much Kukisch she can understand. I realize that I don’t like the idea of Sofie Schotek understanding me when I speak to Polly.

“Does she understand us?” I mumble.

Polly side-eyes me. “No,” she says blandly. “She can’t possibly understand you when you hardly enunciate anything you say.”

I flinch, looking down. “Can I go to my room?”

“I want you out here. Is that okay with you?”

“Of course.”

Polly’s fingers jitter against the sofa, a sliver away from my thigh. I look out the window again. Polly is speaking to Schotek. Standard, parroted Kolnoskan vocabulary, slowed down and stretched out until they don’t resemble words anymore. I drown it out. It’s harder to drown out how close her hand is to me, though, how close her knuckles are to my outer thigh. I swallow, watching the cars start to idle as traffic picks up.

“Could you get Sofie more coffee?” Polly asks me, in Standard.

“That’s alright.” Schotek waves her hand. “I’m fine.”

Polly nods at me, and I stand up. I take the mug and walk into the kitchen. “Let me be polite,” I hear Polly say.

Schotek stutters something.

I let the percolator heat up a little bit and pour. “Thank you,” Schotek says quietly, taking the mug from my hands when I return.

“You’re welcome,” I reply.

I glance at Polly, whose hand rests where I was sitting. She drums her fingers against it, not looking up from her notebook. I move back to the sofa and she retracts her arm.

I should probably be writing, right now. That’s what I would prefer to be doing. But I would always prefer to be writing. I feel best when I’m writing. I feel focused and in control. People say exactly what they’re supposed to say, in my stories. They do what they’re supposed to do. The endings are always the right endings.

Free Press apparently hasn’t agreed with my feelings, on the upcoming publication. But that’s okay, because Polly argued with them for days about it, and she argued again, today. Polly is my champion, in that regard. She spares me from the gritty details of publishing houses. Polly respects my writing. I’m really glad. I work hard on it. And my decisions are absolute. The ending’s exactly what it’s supposed to be. Polly translated it the way it’s supposed to be translated, and it’ll be in the University Journal next month. It amounts to seven pages in that format. Polly will grab a copy when it comes out, and inevitably complain about the column widths.

“More coffee?” Polly asks.

“No thank you,” Schotek says.

I stand up, collecting the mugs and taking them into the kitchen. Polly continues to mumble to herself, drifting over symbols. Schotek’s voice rises as I leave the room, nagging at Polly with an insistent tone.

My upcoming publication is about a monster spirit, from the Kolnoskan folklore canon of creatures. I’m not sure what Polly translated it as; I don’t know if they have monsters like that here. It’s infamous for its appetites. I think about it a lot, much more than I have any reason. I was rather frightened of the concept, as a child, and I wouldn’t go outside once the sun set. I wouldn’t even look out the window, at night, for fear of seeing it in the distance.

The story is about a monster, so it ends the only way a story about a monster should end. Free Press was really quite livid, initially. I suppose. They’re still livid, even after signing off on it. I do know that. I think it may have breached censorship policies, in retrospect. Polly’s all but confirmed it, with her overly defensive dismissals. It’s hard to get much out of her on the topic. (Which, I suppose, is understandable. She wasn’t exactly thrilled about the ending, herself.)

Regardless, that’s the ending that I wrote and I wasn’t going to write another ending anyways. If they wanted a story from me, that was going to be the story that they’d get. I had nothing else finished and fit for publication, at the time of submission.

Not that it matters. Polly’s dead set on publication, and she got to translate it. So that’s settled. I just wish people weren’t always fighting me, here. I suppose Polly was already dealing with this, back when I had to send manuscripts by mail and she made deals on my behalf. Polly knows how to navigate these choppy waters much better than I ever could.

I’m grateful for that.

I wash the mugs in the sink. Polly’s favorite mug is stained around the rim. It was like that when I moved in, so it’s not my fault. It still bothers me, though. Stains are troublesome. I scrub at it with the dish cloth, even though I know it won’t do anything.

“Hey.” Polly, in the doorway.

I frown. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” she says, but her tone is odd. “Are you okay?”

I cock my head, squeezing water out of the dish towel. “Yes,” I say slowly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugs, eyes darting away from me. “Are you having a good day?”

“Um. I mean. It’s an okay day? Not really good or bad?”

She hums as if I said something very important and thought-provoking. I frown, eying her. Does she have a problem with me? I’m not sure. I haven’t done anything recently that would evoke Polly’s ire, necessarily. Well. No super recently. If it’s not a problem with me, though, it’s a problem with something else, which is almost always worse.

“Sofie’s going to Kolnosk really soon,” Polly says, “so it’s important that I practice with her as often as possible. She won’t have any translation guides in the documents repository.”

“I see,” I murmur. I have no idea what that has to do with me.

“I was wondering if you could talk to her, sometime?”

“I spoke to Schotek today.”

She offers a smile. “Could you talk to her in Kukisch, sometime?”

“Ah.” I blink. “Yes? Is that all?”

“Great,” she says, wrapping her arms around herself in a decidedly nonchalant way that is not nonchalant at all. “Thanks.”

I stare at her.

Her eyes dart to my face, before escaping to the floor.

“You’re...welcome?”

She gives a jerky nod, biting her lip.

“Polly.” I feel around my words, confused. “Uh. You don’t need to...thank me?”

She moves from the doorframe, pacing into the kitchen. I move backwards, my lower spine knocking against the lip of the sink.

Polly gives a tight smile, eyebrows quirking. “Sorry,” she mumbles. “I’m just... I’ve never thought about it, but I never do thank you for the things you do, do I?”

I don’t say anything. I want to say: _I don’t care! I know you care! This is the easiest part of our relationship, for me. Giving is easier than breathing._

Five-hundred Kolchens and twenty goats are enough proof. I don’t need thank yous.

\--That ever-haunting, unpleasant thought. I grimace, out of reflex. This is an unfortunate mistake, since Polly starts at the expression. “W-well, I want you to know... I’ll try to thank you, now, since--”

“No,” I mutter, waving her words away. “I don’t want you to thank me. It’s...weird? I know you care. I don’t like you thanking me. Thanks.”

“Okay,” she says, with surprising quickness. Her hand reaches out, hovering over my right arm. She retracts it, frowning. “Um...”

I nod, clenching my jaw. I could just say, _Yes. Touch me, please. Please, touch me, Polly. This is the hard part of the arrangement, isn’t it? The part where I shrivel and die, and you let me. It would be a crime, not to let me, and it is a good thing that you let me, and yet._ And yet. I take a deep breath, air shuddering in the concave of my mouth. “Ah, you can... You know.”

“I can touch you?” she murmurs.

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” But her hand doesn’t come down. I screw my eyes shut, but it still doesn’t make contact. No hand.

She’s so close to me. It would be easy for her to touch me. Is that her giving, my receiving? Simple contact, it shouldn’t be so terrifying. I want it and I don’t. I feel dirty, thinking about Polly’s skin touching mine in any capacity. I’m not sure if it would fix me or break me all over again. I feel dizzy, breath coming out in a rush.

“Waldi.” Polly’s voice, overpowering and worried.

I shrug, eyes lolling to the side, avoiding her face. “I’m just tired,” I croak.

She gives a terse nod. As if it’s so obvious. _Of course, Wally. Of course you’re tired. I’ll buy into all your lies, wholesale. I don’t push you on anything._

She moves away from me, frowning. I stumble forward, arms feeling for the wall, fingers latching onto the doorframe.

“Polly?” Schotek calls, sounding lost.

“Just a second!” she says in Standard, voice bright. Then she says to me, lowly, “Maybe you should get some sleep?”

I watch her slip past me, not a single point of contact between us in the narrow doorway. I push myself away from the frame. “Maybe,” I echo.

Schotek stares at me as I plod behind Polly, cheeks taught and head raised. I spare her a polite nod, neck creaking. She only stares, though.

“I’ll knock on your door in a few hours,” Polly murmurs, voice a thread that I wind around my fingers. “We’ll have dinner. You said we have leftovers, don’t we?”

“Yes.” The word slips from my lips like drool.

She grabs the door to my bedroom, yawning open to reveal the inside of my windowless room. I slide inside, bile bubbling in my throat. I am tired, I guess. I glance at my wastebasket, filled with scraps of dead manuscripts.

“A few hours,” Polly repeats, and closes the door. I stare at it, eyes adjusting to the darkness. My fingers reach for the edge of my pants, sliding them down. I step out of them, standing in the darkness in my shirt, underwear, and socks. It feels strange, standing there, hearing Polly beginning to speak to Sofie in the living room. I can hardly make anything out.

They aren’t talking about me, at least. Or, not with my name. I shuffle to my desk, sitting heavily on the wooden chair. There’s my typewriter and two copied manuscripts. I move my fingers over the Kukisch letters, moving to the top bars with the fifty most common symbols. I feel dazed. My fingers move to the paper beside the typewriter, and the scissors above them. Scissors. Hm.

I hear Schotek, muffled, saying, “So does he _just_ get coffee for you, or is there more to it?”

\- - -

Polly knocks well before a few hours. I grunt, and she opens the door, propping herself against the doorframe. I can feel her looming over me, but I don’t look up. I’m in a strange headspace, staring at the shivering lines of my desk, light curving over the scratched wood.

“You were writing?”

I blink, looking up. Polly’s dressed in her sleep shift, hair falling loosely over her shoulders. She looks better like this, when she isn’t dressed for university meetings.

I gesture at the mess of paper curling around the desk. “Sort of,” I say. “Editing. I’m re-typing the salvageable parts. I’ll rearrange paragraphs later. I’m too frustrated to do it today. Some of this is real shit, you know?”

She arches an eyebrow. “Some of it is better than other parts.”

“Exactly.” I crack my elbow joints, groaning. “My back hurts.”

“You have terrible posture.”

“It’s better than it used to be.” I swing my legs, sliding my heels against the carpet. I rub my knee, humming. Polly just watches me. I’m not wearing pants, I remember. My skin feels tight. Polly’s looking at me. It’s awkward. It’s a distant awkwardness, though; my mind is fuzzy with paper clippings. I pluck at the front of my underwear absently, so that it’s less close to my skin.

“Dinner,” she says, face strange, turning away.

\- - -

“I just think it’s stupid,” I muttered under my breath, pressing my cheek into the glossy wood of Polly’s family dining table. “I’m not a natural at this stuff. I shouldn’t have to learn it.”

She sent me a sharp look, pushing the notebook toward me. “You’ve got to pass the oral exam,” she said, “at the very least. They won’t let you graduate, if you can’t speak Standard.”

“Which is stupid!” I sat up, scowling. “Unless my dad married me off to some mystery Argrean mistress who’s never been to Kolnosk, I don’t need to know it. I’m never leaving Kuk.”

“You’re still assuming your future wife is some old lady,” she noted, somewhat amused.

“I dunno,” I muttered, looking away. “Maybe.” I shrugged. “That would be something he would do.”

“It would,” she agreed, voice soft.

“I think it’s super messed up that he even did that to me, to be honest. Am I crazy, for thinking that? I’ve got two years left of my life. Then it’s just...someone else’s.”

She shrugged, staring at the notebook.

Polly probably did think I was crazy. She was very traditional. She wouldn’t see any problems with an arranged marriage. And I didn’t, necessarily, either. Not on paper. But this was my life, and my father apparently gave me to some family as a future husband when I was _eight._ And he didn’t tell me until a month ago, on my fifteenth birthday. It was probably my worst birthday, to date.

 _It was dire,_ he had said with his usual apathetic tone. _I lost half the goats, that year._

 _Because you stopped taking care of them,_ I had wanted to scream back. _Because I didn’t know what I was doing. Because I didn’t realize until it was too late, anyways._

Yeah. That would be in the running for worst birthday. I thought that was fair.

“I guess I’m just stressed.” I ducked my head. I could feel a blush coming. I was easily embarrassed. I had always been sensitive, and puberty had made everything worse. I’d been a knot of emotions for the last year and a half. That didn’t mean I had to take it out on Polly, though. I was quite fond of Polly. She was the most important person in my life. Her family was my only substantial point of contact with other people. “I’m sorry. It’s just, learning that and then this exam coming up. I’m afraid I won’t graduate. A-and... I know you’re going to university, soon. So I’m just...”

“It’s okay.” She offered an off-kilter smile. “I get that you’ve got a lot going on.”

“Anyways. I am grateful, you know,” I said. “I want to put that out there. Thanks for helping me with this. I really appreciate it.”

“It’s fine, seriously. I actually like this stuff. I’m gonna go to university for it, I mean. It’s easy, for me. And you’re really, really _good_ at Standard, you just don’t have any confidence. Your listening comprehension is fantastic. You'll pass the oral exam, so long as you don't psych yourself out. If I can help you in any way, I’m more than happy to do that. I’m always there for you, Wally.” She paused. “I mean, unless you try to rob a bank or something. But depending on the bank, I guess I could be the getaway car.”

I laughed, shaking my head. Polly smiled. “I wouldn’t do that,” I said easily, voice soft.

“Oh, I know. You’re a picture-perfect Kolnoskan boy. To a fault.”

“I’m really not.”

She rolled her eyes. “Every girl’s into you. Even Ichma’s got a crush on you. She’s jealous of me.”

“Ichma’s twelve. She’ll get over it.” And she didn’t have a crush on me. Ichma pestered me with obnoxious questions only twelve-year-olds had the courage to ask. She had the same audacity as Polly; they were sisters through-and-through. _A boy’s got to keep secrets,_ I’d had to say on more than one occasion with a tight-lipped smile. Or, my new favorite: _Why don’t you ask your brother?_

Howie had given me a new set of frowns, a few days after he’d come back from university. But Ichma had stopped asking me so many annoying questions, so I didn’t regret it too much.

Now, a picture-perfect Kolnoskan boy would have answered Ichma’s questions, wouldn’t he?

“She asked me if I’ve seen your penis, recently. She’s an absolute monster.”

I spluttered, covering my face and groaning. “That’s so bad. That’s _so_ bad.”

“She has no filter,” Polly said dryly. “You shouldn’t have ever told her about sex anatomy.”

“She asked!”

“Oh my gosh.”

“Forget about it.” I cringed, waving my hand at her. “Let’s do past perfect passive again, please. The Standard assignment.”

She snorted. “Oh, suddenly so interested. I see.”

“You’re right, it’s important. I’m _very_ interested. Gotta learn Standard for my old woman wife, so we can communicate.”

“Oh gosh. Wally, what if your wife is a supermodel?”

“Super doubtful.” I picked up the pen and scratched out some of the shorthand symbols. “And besides. I just. Is this weird? I’d rather marry someone I actually _know,_ at the very least.”

Polly hummed. “Do you have a type? Of girl you like?”

“Um.” I stared at the page, vision swimming a little. “No,” I settled on. A pallid lie. I preferred girls who looked like Polly. It was likely due to familiarity. I’d read theories about it, at the library, trying to ignore judging glances from the assistant librarian. Maybe I did like Polly. I wasn’t sure.

“Then you can’t be disappointed when your wife’s an old maid.”

“Okay, let me amend that: no old maids. No murderers or thieves and no weird strangers. Is that too much to ask?”

She laughed. “Then what if I were your wife?” she asked casually, nudging at my bicep. “Better to be arrange-married to a friend than a crusty grandma, probably.”

I flushed at the concept, throat hot and stomach tight. Polly, as my wife? I wasn’t sure about that. I was in a strange funk with my feelings for Polly. They were a swarm of conflicting affections, familial and sometimes foreign. Polly and me, married, though? It would have to be a very traditional marriage, due to the Hochsprachs, but maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. Polly was so funny. She was so good at helping me feel better about things. All the issues that came with marriage, though? So many new responsibilities, and I had no frame of reference for them. I never knew my father as a husband, after all; I had no role models. I was afraid of marriage, regardless of whom I’d marry. Maybe, with Polly, it wouldn’t be so bad.

Then my father’s face crept into my brain and my spine went ice-cold. Five-hundred Kolchens and twenty goats. A picture-perfect Kolnoskan boy.

“That would be the worst,” I choked, eyes burning. I let out a strange laugh. “Because you’re my, ah, my best friend and. I wouldn’t want that to be forced, you know. C-Considering the circumstances of the arrangement. My father, he... Like, you’d probably had to have known the whole time, too. That’d be just. Awful. Ha ha.”

Polly laughed with me, brows drawing together.

\- - -

“I’m not going to stop you from visiting Franzi and his friends.” She picks at her breakfast with disinterest.

I twist my fingers on the scratched tabletop. I really wish she would. Polly never refuses me anything, though, no matter how often I want her to do so.

“I won’t be your excuse,” she continues. “If you don’t want to go, that’s fine. I do think it’d be good for you to get out, though. Talk to other people.”

 _Assimilate_ , I think dully. Polly wouldn’t say something that thoughtless, though. It might not even be part of her conscious intentions. Polly is right, after all--I don’t socialize. I never did, though. I don’t need anyone else, do I? I have Polly. All the other people I used to have are either far away or dead. They exist as caricatures in my writing. In that way, I still have them, after a fashion. They’re right here with me. I’m not lonely.

“Is the breakfast bad?” I ask quietly.

“No,” she says. “I don’t feel very good.” She scrunches her face. “I’m just stressed. Free Press is so obnoxious. They’re set on getting another guy to look at the story. I really don’t feel like going through this, again. They should just reject it, so we can shop it around somewhere else.”

“Another guy? As in, they’re having an editor look at it?”

“I think so. I’m not sure.” She rubs her face. “They want to meet up, in person, to discuss. Are you willing?”

“Yes. I think so.” I drum my fingers on the table, staring at my untouched plate. “I want to defend it. Give me a week?”

“That’s soon.”

“I feel good.”

She snorts. “That’s very rare. Forgive me if I don’t trust that.”

I shrug.

“I do think the story might be your best,” she says, taking a forkful of egg. A normal fork. “I’m not trying to downplay the quality. But you’re rarely so confident in your writing. You’re always so ambivalent about things.”

‘Things,’ she said. Not ‘your writing.’ ‘Things.’

She isn’t wrong, though, so I let it go. “It came out exactly like I intended,” I say, pulling my coffee mug toward me. Milk and sugar. I don’t drink coffee as much as Polly. She drinks it everyday. “I spent two weeks swapping around articles, at the tail-end of the project. I know it’s how it’s supposed to be.”

“Always so deliberate,” she notes.

“Always,” I agree, taking a drink.

“I like that about your writing.” She sets her fork down, egg slopping off. “I like how every word feels like it belongs. I feel like the cadence is really lost in translation.”

“I don’t trust anyone else with it.”

She nods, pursing her lips. “I appreciate that, Wally. I know.”

“Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?”

Her eyes flick to me, before returning to the table. “I don’t think so. I’m just...tired, you know how it is.”

“Mm.”

“I think you should go out with Franzi. If you don’t want to go, you should tell him.”

“Ugh.”

“Waldi. He’s expecting you to be at his apartment, tonight.”

“Schotek’s apartment.”

“ _Their_ apartment,” she says, voice a little sour.

Right. Franzi and his ilk don’t defer to their women in any respect.

 _Nothing wrong with that,_ I chant in my mind, the thought rising with a deeply rooted hysteria. Franzi is a very nice guy, and I do like him. I’d like to be friends with him, maybe. That is true. Franzi is easy to like, amicable, friendly, pleasant. He talks to me like I’m anyone else. Nothing awkward or pathetic in my aspect seems to shake him. He’s blind to my strangeness, and it’s mollifying.

But I don’t know him that well. And I don’t know his friends.

“I worry about you.”

I start, catching Polly’s downturned lips. I mirror her expression, fingers skittering along the edge of the table with anxious energy.

“Don’t make that face,” she says.

I look down. My wrists are white. There’s no sun here, even if I wanted to go outside and gain some color. I’ve always been white, anyways, though. I look like a ghost. Polly looks like a flesh-and-blood creature, but I’m composed of birch bark. Ugly.

She sighs. I don’t look up. Polly has hardly eaten. I don’t feel like I can eat if she’s hardly eaten. I’m not sure what the proper behavior for such a situation is. I’m supposed to eat after she starts eating, but she’s hardly started eating. I guess I shouldn’t eat. That would be safest.

“Listen.” She taps at the table. I look up. She has a carefully schooled expression. She’s upset. I don’t think she’s angry with me. She’s tired, though. She wasn’t lying about that. Polly’s rarely angry, anyways. She mostly just gets frustrated. “I don’t want you doing anything that hurts you, okay? You don’t need to do it for me, or for Franzi, or for anyone. But I’m worried. I’m... I worry about you sitting here, all cooped up. I worry about your mental state. You’re really withdrawn. And I know it’s hard, being here. I just think making some friends, or trying to make friends--it might help you settle in. Or feel less alone.”

“I don’t feel alone,” I mumble.

Polly looks at me. Her eyes are searching mine. I don’t know what for. Probably for a lie. There is no lie, though. She sighs. “Okay,” she says. “Okay. But if you don’t want to go, you should call down to Sofie and Franzi’s apartment, to let him know. Franzi’s a nice guy, Wally, and he likes you. He won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

Why would he? What would Franzi, or his friends, even do to me? Make fun of me? Kick me down some stairs? Kill me and string up the body? I don’t get it. “I know,” I say, frowning. “I’ll...go tonight. But if I don’t like them, I’m not going to the game.”

She nods, releasing air. “That’s fine. Totally fair.”

It’s never been about being fair, though.

“I’ve got to run down to the university,” she says, standing up. Her chair squeaks against the floor. I’ll have to check if she’s left a mark and clean it. “I’ll be gone for a little bit. But when I get back, we can review the sports vocabulary?”

“Sure,” I say easily. That would be smart. I won’t remember most of them, though, I know. It’s a futile exercise.

She takes her full plate to the trash. I watch her, my cheeks cold and numb. She glances at me, drawing her eyebrows together. “Hey. Eat your breakfast.”

\- - -

Franzi’s friends are louder than he is. Their voices bounce around my skull, rattling my skeleton. Their simple vocabulary, while easy to understand, has the unfortunate quality of existing strung together as slurred messes of partial sentences.

There are three of them. The first two may as well be twins of some persuasion. Both are rat-haired and bronze-faced, with wide, watery eyes. The third, sitting with his hands clasped between his knees like a patient teacher, is bald with skin as dark as dirt at sunset. Like the ground I would watch from my father’s porch, shadows creeping across the grass like wily fingers.

Situated around Schotek’s vintage radio, the five of us would be cozy if not for my painful inability to relax. My eyes keep trying to steal away to the floor or my lap, anything to avoid looking at someone.

They all told me their names, but I can’t keep them straight. A Jon and an August. Names that don’t stick in my skull so well. The third friend is called Uwe, and I make a deliberate point not to remember whose name that is. I don’t want to know. I once wrote a story about an Uwe.

“You want a beer?” Franzi says to me with that easy companionship I can’t attain.

“Um. No,” I say, thinking of Polly.

One of the friends leans forward, face open and interested. The non-twin. “Waldi, was it?”

My throat bobs. “Uh, yeah. Hi.”

He uses familiar language with me. Personal names. It took me years of knowing Polly before I was fully comfortable only calling her ‘Polly.’ Of course, then the marriage happened, and everything became just generally uncomfortable.

“Polly Hochsprach? You ever heard of her? She’s my wife’s friend. She’s his wife. They’re practically joined at the hip.”

“I love my wife,” I say, voice too loud.

“’Course you do,” Franzi says, patting my shoulder. “She’s a great woman. Really funny and smart.”

I flinch, swallowing thickly. Touch is a rare occurrence, back in Kolnosk, reserved for family and required interactions. No one claps another person on the shoulder so casually. I feel like a minor earthquake is rocking through my skeleton, every time his hand lands on me.

“Y-yeah,” I say, blinking. “I. Just love her so much.”

One of the friends stares at me. I feel like withdrawing into my clothing like a hermit crab. I don’t actually know if I love Polly. Most of the time, I’m unsure. It’s really complicated, isn’t it? I’m not sure if love is a thing that exists in situations like ours. Love implies there was ever a choice.

“Waldi is a really cool dude,” Franzi says. “He’s from Kolnosk, if you couldn’t tell.”

“Way up north?” one of the guys says.

“Wait, how far north?” another says. Jon? August? The last one?

Franzi nudges me. I swallow. “Ahm. I’m from...ah, the Kuk sub-county, inside Losch. On the North Mountain Range? I lived on this mountain. Mount Echmi.”

They mumble to each other, trying to place it on a map. They fail. “How far is it from Rigàna?”

The capital, a city I’ve been to maybe twice in my life. I shrug, thinking. I should be used to this question--Polly probably is--but few people have actually spoken to me long enough to ask me. “Uh, three hours? Three hours north.”

“Huh. No idea. That’s far, huh?”

“He’s an author,” Franzi says.

I try not to cringe. The room quiets a little, one of the friends taking a long swig from his drink. Franzi is right, though. I am an author. I just don’t find it to be a particularly compelling topic and I don’t want to talk about it too much. Especially to strangers.

“An author?” one parrots.

“Sure,” Franzi says easily. “He writes for Free Press. Right, Waldi?”

“Right.” My jaw tightens with nervous energy. “I, uh. I was been published in the...University...Journal...” I trail off, talking into my shirt. Stupid. Stupid. I can’t help it. I feel insecure, discussing this with people who don’t know anything about me or my work. It doesn’t mean anything to normal people. I understand this.

I can hardly get through the publication meetings with Free Press agents, and Polly does most of the talking during those exchanges.

“What kind of stuff do you write?” one asks. August? Jon?

“Um. Fiction, most. Some essays...”

“Like, genre?”

I shrug, biting my lip. I wish Polly were here. She knows how to sell me to other people. She knows what genres I write; I don’t. I don’t think about genres. I cast a wide net in my mind, dredging up some choice Polly vocabulary. “Esoteric stuff?”

“Eso-what?”

“Niche shit,” one says helpfully. ‘Niche’ is the same word in Kukisch. Unless he said some other word that only sounds like the word ‘niche’ in Kukisch. I wonder about that, and then I catch their eyes and I don’t.

My heart is pounding. They’re all looking at me. Me, the five-foot-four Kolnoskan goat farmer. I can’t remember the last time so many people have looked at me. Four whole people. Maybe never.

(There had been the wedding, hadn’t there? Polly’s parents and her sister and brother, my father, and the procession. And Polly, naturally. Ten people? I wasn’t entirely lucid, so I can’t rightly say.)

Franzi nudges me again, shaking me in an almost paternal fashion. My breath catches in my throat, a bubble of air. “I think it’s, like. Folk-y, dark comedy stuff? Like, depressing but funny. Lots of extended metaphors. That’s what my wife says. She loves his stuff.”

“Your wife loves boring stuff,” one points out.

“Yeah, but I’m sure his stuff isn’t boring. Look at him! He’s a cool dude.”

 _Please don’t look at me._ I stare at my knees. Maybe my writing is boring. It probably is. It’s very insular. I write it for myself. I don’t consider myself a writer, not really. I don’t have high-minded thoughts. I’m not intelligentsia. I grew up on a goat farm, and I went to state school until fifteen. Not a stunning success of a writer’s background.

Polly likes my writing. She was the first person I ever shared it with. We were both in school. She was so nice about it, too. She really thought I was a genius, back then. So I kept showing it to her, all of my clumsy scrawlings at thirteen. That was before I knew about our arrangement, though. Once I did, it was too late to stop.

“You pumped for the game?”

“Pumped,” I repeat blankly.

“Excited,” Franzi offers.

“Yes.”

The first story I ever showed her was about a dead rabbit I found on the side of the road when I was seven. An edited form has been in the University Journal. I changed all the names, in the edited version. Polly asked me why, and I couldn’t come up with a reason.

“My wife thinks it will be good for me,” I say. “She thinks I need to meet the people from here.”

Franzi pats me on the back. “Well,” he says warmly, “this is one fun way to do that.”

Fun. Right. I don’t really return that sentiment. But Franzi means well. I’m doing this because Polly wants me to do it. I do whatever Polly wants me to do. Or I try to, at least. I’m not always so good. But I do try.

Polly doesn’t like how hard I try. That much has become obvious since I’ve come here. Back in Kuk, it seemed like I couldn’t try hard enough. Long phone calls about nothing and awkward meals with her mother where I had to sit so straight that my spine felt like it would snap at the slightest quiver, while she spent her days doing whatever one does in Bismaché. I still don’t know.

I admit, part of my motivations now may rise out of latent spite and guilt. A complicated miasma of ill-gotten intentions. But I do also want to try for both our sakes. I do want this to work. And I want it to work the proper way, the way it does back home. Even better, maybe.

I do want to try. I want to be the husband Polly deserves. A proper, picture-perfect Kolnoskan husband.

“You ever seen a game?” one says.

“Ah. No,” I say.

“Never?”

“Yeah, seriously? Never?” another squawks.

“I’m from in the country,” I say, sliding out a smile. “I have never been to a...a big sports room, or seen a game.”

“Dude, you’ll have a good time, then.”

“Of course,” I say brightly. “I am all about good times. I am a person who has fun.”

The dead rabbit was one-hundred percent true. Maybe that’s why I had to change the names. Because they were our names, weren’t they?

Franzi knocks against me. “Anyways, we’ve got to get you up to date with the brackets.”

“Brackets,” I repeat blankly.

“The--” He gesticulates, motioning to his friends. “What’s another word? Uh, scores?”

“Scores for each team,” one says.

“The scores for the league,” another says.

“Okay,” I say, and I don’t understand at all.

It’s a lot of numbers, it turns out. They mean nothing to me, but I try to memorize them with their associated mascots. We’ll be watching a game between the Wasps and the Cardinals. It’s supposed to be a good match-up. Their numbers are apparently good, because they are high numbers.

Franzi’s friends are very serious about these numbers. They rattle off numbers like seasoned mathematicians. Ten-to-two, seventeen-in-the-final-quarter, and so on.

It’s nice to see them excited about something, at least. More importantly, they are paying very little attention to me. I’m allowed to drift into the background, staring at roster names I can’t keep straight or properly read, drilling the word “bracket” into my head until I feel nauseous.

Will Polly be proud of me, when I return to her apartment? I don’t know. She was tired, this morning. She was tired, this afternoon. She’s bound to be tired, tonight. I don’t like dealing with a tired Polly. I feel like it’s my fault when she’s tired. I feel like I need to do something to fix her. She says there’s nothing, though.

I don’t have much to offer, anyways.

Not very much.

Hardly anything.

Well, a few things, maybe. But it’s difficult for me to give them. The meaningful things. I really am an awful husband. I’m hardly a man, and I don’t have much confidence, either. Back home, I was considered demure. Demure is a kinder word than shy. It’s almost sexy. But here, I am clearly out of the ordinary. Shy would be a polite term for me, here. I stand out starkly from Franzi and his equally loud friends. I wonder if Polly is more attracted to the sorts of men here.

I cringe.

“What do you think, Waldi?” Franzi asks, cocking his head. “Who’s your favorite?”

“My favorite...” I hesitate.

“Who do you think will win?”

Mm. I look back down at the lists of scores. The Wasps have higher numbers than the Cardinals, but I like cardinals more than wasps. They’re strange animals to compare, aren’t they? Bugs and birds. “My favorite is Cardinals,” I decide. “But I think Wasps will win.”

“You like the Cardinals?” Franzi smiles. “Well, let’s hope they win, then.” He furrows his brow. “They had some good games in the early season, but they’ve really fallen off.”

“Wasps all the way,” one of his friends says.

“Definitely Wasps,” another says.

Franzi laughs. He claps his hand on my shoulder. He’s touched me three times, now. His body heat feels like an oily stain soaking into my shirt. Franzi touches people so easily. Permission isn’t a concept to him. I suppose it isn’t concept to any of the men here. They all just seem to do things, without thought. Polly didn’t tell Franzi he could touch me. Franzi doesn’t think to ask Polly; he doesn’t even think to ask _me._

This is a strange place, populated by strange people.

I take a deep breath through my slightly parted lips, tongue dry.

“You okay, Waldi? You’re kind of pale.” Franzi.

“Of course.”

“Okay,” he says. He takes his hand off of me and I can breathe again, head above water.

“Waldi, do you got _any_ sports in Kolnosk?” August or Jon or the other one.

“Ah? Very little.” I clear my throat. “Sports aren’t common, where I live...d.”

“No sports?” another says, aghast.

“We have sports,” I clarify. “We have sports. But where I am from--Kuk--there are no professional teams. We have enough of the people for some club teams.”

“That’s nuts.”

“Did you do sports, growing up?” Franzi asks. “Sofie tells me you’ve got some different sports, up there.”

“Um, no.” I fidget, before I wrangle myself under control. It’s an old, practiced explanation, like worn leather. “My father and I were busy with his goat farm.”

“Goat farm,” one says. “I don’t think I’ve ever been to a farm.”

“They stink,” I say absently, before realizing what came out of my mouth. “I apologize. That was untoward.”

“Untoward?” one mumbles to another.

The other one offers a word I don’t know.

“Fancy vocabulary,” the first responds.

“Of course he’s got fancy vocabulary,” Franzi says. “He’s a writer!”

“My wife taught me,” I offer. “My wife teaches me Standard.”

“Your wife’s pretty smart, huh?” August or Jon or someone says.

“My wife is a translator,” I say. “Acclaimed.”

Franzi nods. “She and Sofie met at the university, during some big academia show at the archives.”

“Your wife is always at the archives.”

“Well, she’s an historian.”

“She must smell like old paper,” one says. “She’s got to smell like a mummy. Or a grandma.”

“Same thing,” another says. “I sat next to this old woman on the train, today, who smelled like mold.”

I stare at the floor.

“Nah, she smells fine,” Franzi says easily. “But those archives do smell weird, don’t they?”

 _My wife smells good,_ I almost say. Sometimes, when I’m showering, I pick up her shampoo bottle and sniff it, staring absently at the door.

Thinking about it, I feel sticky with shame.

“Waldi, have you ever been to the archives?” Franzi’s voice, companionable as ever.

“No. My wife doesn’t want me near to her place of work,” I say. “She works on the University.”

“Why wouldn’t she want you at her job?” one asks, like that’s his business.

I shrug. “I don’t know.”

“And you just let her decide that for you?”

“Yes. My wife makes all important decisions.”

Another laughs. “That’s my wife with the house. If I even move a chair or anything, you’d think someone got shot. I don’t dare question her, either.”

That’s something he should probably discuss before doing, then, if it bothers her so much. No matter what, she’s within her rights. That’s what I think. Marriage is a contract, and he signed himself over to her. He probably did it of his own volition. That means he deserves everything that comes his way.

I think about Polly praising my first story. She had to have known. That’s the worst part. That’s definitely the worst part.

“Uh... Hey? Are you okay?” Franzi murmurs, voice low and close to my face.

I grimace, re-focusing my eyes on my knees. My hands on my knees. “I’m fine,” I say, well-articulated and without accent. “Thank you for asking.”

“Okay.” Franzi swings around, wringing his wrists. “Um. Anyways, I’ll look into tickets. I’m excited for this game.”

“Definitely,” one says. “This is gonna be huge.”

I wonder if women get together in their living rooms and talk about sports like this. Maybe they talk about the same things as the men, just in the kitchen. Do I belong in the living room or the kitchen? I don’t know. I feel alien and awkward in this city, like I don’t belong to any group. Maybe that’s loneliness. Maybe that’s what Polly meant. Maybe that’s why Polly’s worried.

The thought makes me incredibly tired. I feel my hands clutch at my knees and I smooth them out, knuckles pale. I’m smaller than the men here. I don’t know how much of that is genetics and how much of it is juvenile malnutrition. We’re all humans, but I feel like I don’t look like them at all. I take up so much less space in everything I do. The women in the kitchen wouldn’t take me, though. I know that. And I don’t want them to take me. I want us to be separate.

Trying to meld with Franzi’s friends, while a well-intentioned pursuit, is ultimately futile. I’m inherently at odds with them. They have different sensibilities than me; we’re different social species. They might be better than me. I’m not sure. I’d hate to think that’s the case, but it probably is in this city, at the very least. Maybe Polly would like me more, if I could be like Franzi and his friends. I feel so tired, thinking about it. I feel so tired, and I don’t know what to do about it.

I just want to go home.

Franzi clears his throat. I look up, catching his brown eyes clouded with caution. I blink, frowning. “Guys, it’s getting kinda late, huh?” His voice floats over my head.

“Late?” one says. “It’s only ten o’clock.”

“Uh, yeah,” Franzi says. “Well, Sofie like to sleep around eleven, and I’ve got some stuff to do. You know. So maybe we should call it off soon-ish.”

“Um,” another says, frowning. “I guess? Yeah, that’s fair.”

“Super fair,” the last one says. “Totally fair.”

Fair. Mm.

“That okay with you, Waldi?” Franzi asks. “If we pack up soon? Finish?”

“Sure,” I say.

He stands up, cracking his back. “I’ll get us our seats in the next few days. So I’ll be in touch, yeah? Um, in contact. I’ll talk to you when I know.”

His friends and I murmur in agreement.

Franzi nods, standing in the middle of us all. No one says anything. I look between the other men, who stare at him blankly. It’s a strange scene. Franzi just stands there, staring off to the side with an idle expression. No one else gets up. It’s like we’re frozen in place, for whatever reason. The mood is difficult to discern. It holds an odd flavor.

The moment is broken when Franzi says, “Huh. I’m gonna go grab Sofie. I’ll be back in a few seconds. You guys feel free to finish up and go whenever, though!”

“Sure,” the confused one says.

One of them cracks his knuckles and murmurs something. Another murmurs back. My eyes dart to at the floor, because I don’t want to know if any of them are looking at me. I don’t want any of them to talk to me, either. I don’t dislike any of them. I just don’t want to talk. That’s all.

I’m also tired. Worn raw. I’m not sure why. People exhaust me, I guess. Maybe it really is that simple.

“Hello, Waldi.” Schotek’s voice. I stand up on reflex. Not a smart decision. None of the other guys stand. I glance at them, fingers twitching with barely contained embarrassment. “Waldi,” Schotek says again, and I turn my attention back to her. She inclines her head, frowning. She’s watching me. Appraising me, with glittering reptile eyes.

“You want to show the guys down the steps?” Franzi says, voice loud and flat. “I know you’ve been wanting some air, and everyone’s leaving now.”

“Sure.” She doesn’t take her eyes off of me. “You want to take a smoke with me, Waldi? I want to talk about Polly Hochsprach.”

“Okay?” My legs lock awkwardly before allowing me to fall into step behind her as she waltzes to the door. She waits, palm on the handle, until I’m beside her, and we walk out of the apartment together.

“Hey, have a good night, Waldi!” Franzi calls. “I’m really glad you came, tonight.”

I can hear his friends saying similar things to that affect, but my mind is wrapped around Schotek’s coiled hand slipping into her coat pocket.

Down the stairs inside, then down the stairs outside and onto the street. Schotek stops, so I stop with her.

“You want a smoke?”

“Ah. No thank you,” I say, thinking of Polly. I only smoke when Polly tells me I can. I like smoking, though. I like how it feels. Bitter, acrid and burning. It hurts. I would smoke two cigarettes at a time, if Polly would let me.

We start walking again, heading left.

Schotek lights a cigarette. She takes a long drag. I watch the ember flicker around the end, bright orange. Exhaling, she says, “The trains are closed, now. Do you know how to get home?”

I want to say yes, but I’m not entirely sure in the darkness. And Schotek is still walking beside me, even as her apartment building fades into the night. “Um,” I manage.

“Look.” She glances at me from under her eyelashes. “Adjusting to new situations takes a long time. The,” she says a string of words, “is long. Might take years. Do you understand what I am saying?”

“A little,” I admit. “You speak fast.”

“Mm.” She fingers her cigarette. “Don’t act weird around my husband.”

I don’t say anything. The sentence holds such dreadful, humiliating implications, that I’m driven to apathy. Maybe shock. Sofie Schotek says such shocking things, sometimes. She lacks _tact_ , as Polly puts it. Polly likes that about her. I don’t.

Still. I don’t really know what there is to say.

Sorry? Maybe.

So I say, “Sorry.”

“It’s nothing,” she says. “You worried him. You’re not good at social affairs.”

“Ah. No.”

“He likes you,” she says, “for whatever reason. He really has no idea about you. About anything. Franzi is very ignorant. Do you understand me?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Well, try to act like his friends. You’ll learn some things. It would be in your best interest.”

I clear my throat, vocal chords shivering. “Ah. Schotek. You said you wanted to speak about Polly Hochsprach...”

“Your wife,” she says flatly. “Well, maybe. I mostly just wanted to get you out of there without causing a scene. Franzi tries, but he’s not socially savvy at all. He thinks you were very anxious, in there. I guess he said something that made you upset. But who knows, with you?”

I shrug, rocks in my throat.

“As for your wife,” she continues, “Polly. Right. Well, she’s quite taken with you. I’m sure you understand.”

“Ah...”

“You don’t.” Her voice holds a soggy, cold weight to it. Disdain and disbelief.

What should I say to that?

“Don’t say sorry,” she snaps. “Don’t waste your time. You surprise me a lot, Waldi Hoffenthal. Do you prefer if I call you Hoffenthal? Is that preferable, where you are from?”

I swallow, throat crackling. “Um. You can call me whatever you want, Schotek...”

“Sure. I should have expected that answer, shouldn’t I?”

“Ah...”

“You’re a broken record,” she grouses, twisting her face to glare at me. “I trust you must be very smart in Kukisch.”

“Not really,” I admit.

“Polly thinks you’re smart.”

I don’t say anything.

“Does she treat you well?”

The sidewalk is slate gray in the low light. My eyes are dry. “...Excuse me?”

“You get her coffee.”

“Um. Yes?”

“Make her dinner, clean the apartment, sort through her receipts, walk behind her, move wherever she asks you to. She doesn’t even _have_ to ask. Is that normal?”

A cold dread drips down my spine. “Back home,” I say quietly. “Yes.”

Schotek hums, taking another very long drag from her cigarette, her cheeks hollowing. She rips it from her mouth, pursing her lips. She doesn’t say anything.

I don’t, either. My head is swimming.

“Weird,” she settles on, word tense.

My mind is empty.

Sofie Schotek shakes her head. “Polly loves you,” she says. “She really does. She’s obsessed with you. She never shuts up about you. And then you finally move down here and it’s just...”

“Um...”

“Whatever. You’re both weird.” After saying that, she flicks her half-finished cigarette into the street. “I guess it’s none of my business. But for being so,” some word, “about you when you’re not around, she treats you like a maid whenever you’re nearby.”

“No, she doesn’t,” I say. She treats me like a husband. Hardly even that. A particularly loathsome roommate, perhaps.

Schotek gives me a long, askance look. “Hm.” She rubs her cheek. “When does your next piece come out?”

“Ah? Um, first in the month. Next print.”

“Do you mind if I ask to read it early?”

“No.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“Pardon?”

“You honestly don’t care? Or are you just saying that?”

I blink. “I...don’t care. I don’t.”

She cocks her head, looking me over. Whatever she sees doesn’t seem to satisfy her. She grunts. “You have about a fifteen-minute walk from here, turn left at the next crosswalk and then it’s straight until your building on the left. Think you can do that?”

“I... Yes.” I lick my lips. “I’m very terribly sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

I shift, fingers dipping into my pockets.

“Stop saying sorry for everything. It’s obnoxious, and nobody does that, here.”

“Okay. S--” I clamp down on my tongue, before the rest can slop out of my mouth.

Schotek watches me, eyes gleaming. I don’t say anything. Not a peep. “I’m still not sure if Polly is lucky or unlucky,” she says. “What do you think?”

“Unlucky,” I bite out. “Definitely.”

She hums, walking past me, back to her apartment building. “Stay safe, Hoffenthal,” she calls. “I’ll see you soon. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” I reply, staring ahead of me at the long expanse of dark road.

A black car rumbles past, lights bright and foreign. I squint, forcing my legs to move.

What was any of that? Schotek didn’t make much sense. She sees one side of Polly’s apartment and thinks she has enough evidence to start throwing around value judgments. She seems to make a lot of assumptions, doesn’t she? Maybe that’s just a hallmark of academics. After all, Polly also loves to make assumptions. All the smart people I know make all sorts of assumptions.

She did say some unkind things about Polly, though.

Unpleasant. She should have left Polly out of the issue.

I’ll have to make it up to Polly, I suppose.

That’s a bummer. But I do have certain responsibilities to uphold, as a husband. I would hate to bring shame to Polly, in any sense. I have a duty to stand by her, even if I can’t do much else. Schotek may sneer at what we share, but it’s all I have. Polly has done so much for me. She has. Even if I sometimes forget. Polly has done a lot for me. What have I done for Polly?

Embarrassed us in front of Franzi and Schotek, evidently.

Mortifying.

I’ve been a stain on the Hochsprach name since I first met Polly, though, haven’t I? Since they first invited me in. Since Nene Hochsprach first set eyes on me. Embarrassing. And it only got worse after the wedding. I look so out of place in their family photos, a skulking blond ghost hovering at Polly’s elbow, Ichma sidled close to me with a beaming smile while I offer thin-lipped, tepid expressions. I can see albums of subdued disaster images as plainly as I can feel the stained ceiling of my bedroom in Kuk, breathing in deeply through my nose. They never said anything, but I’ve always known. I don’t belong with any of these people. Polly or Schotek. Accomplished people, people of value.

I stop on the sidewalk, listening to the beginning of rain. Did Schotek bring an umbrella? Should I run back and see if I can help her into her brownstone?

No, idiot. What will you do? Hold your arm over her head? Absolute moron.

I close my eyes, skin clammy with the rising humidity. I feel sick. Weird. Schotek’s lips quivering around that word. ‘Weird’ is the same in both our languages. The same word. It bites at me, the way she said it. Weird. Weird.

She shouldn’t have brought Polly into it. Schotek called Polly weird, because of me. So we’re weird. That isn’t good.

Standing in the darkness between street lamps, I feel so small. I’m an animal displaced from his habitat. I’m trying to swim upstream in a foreign river, subject to a food-chain that doesn’t account for me. 

My already feeble social repertoire can’t prepare for anything, here. My instincts tell me to apologize. To whom? I don’t know. How does one gain forgiveness, in a place like this? I don’t think groveling works, here. Schotek said they don’t say sorry, either. But the only courses of action my mind supplies are those, preferably in conjunction. Running to catch up to Schotek, pressing my forehead into the wet concrete sidewalk, and babbling apologies.

Weird.

I don’t belong here at all.

\- - -

“What are you doing?”

“Uh.” I squint at the blurred streetlights below, wiping down the window. It’s raining hard outside, splattering against the glass. My scalp is still damp from the walk back. I tuck a corner of the washcloth into my front pants pocket, twisting to see Polly standing in her sleep shift. Passing headlights cast a harsh line down her body, there and gone. “I’m. I’m...cleaning?”

“It’s eleven at night,” she says.

I glance at the clock. Eleven-o-six. “Yes?”

She folds her arms over her chest, frowning. I offer a bland expression in return. “You didn’t tell me that you were home.”

“I just got home.”

“Just?”

I double-check the clock. “About thirty minutes ago.”

“Why are the lights off?”

“I didn’t think to turn them on.”

Polly arches an eyebrow, unimpressed.

I lick the roof of my mouth, turning around to fully face her. I feel like a sapling rooted in loose soil, waving in the breeze.

She points to the couch. “Sit down.”

I obey, fingers interlocking into a painful knot. Polly sits down, looking me over. There’s just enough space between us. I clear my throat as quietly as I can, rubbing at the washcloth hanging out of my pocket. It isn’t that dirty. We keep the apartment clean. But I didn’t know what else to do.

 _Unlucky,_ I told Sofie Schotek. Polly is definitely unlucky to have me.

“Sh,” she murmurs, breaking me out of my thoughts. “How were Franzi’s friends?”

“Strange,” I say.

“Mm.”

“No sense of decorum.”

Her lips quirk before settling back into a flat line. “You would say that.”

“They’re really... I don’t know, they’re nice. Honestly, but. Maybe too many questions... I don’t like talking about myself.”

“Do I know that or what.”

I offer a simpering smile, crooked and artificial. It doesn’t win me any sway over Polly’s prone face.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were back?” she asks.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“I don’t care if I’m asleep. You need to tell me when you get back. This isn’t like you.”

 _Isn’t like me? What would you know? Maybe I just like being alone,_ I want to spit. _Maybe I just want to stand alone in a dark living room that isn’t mine and pretend._

She leans back, eying me. “You mad at me?”

I shake my head. “Of course not, Polly.”

She makes a noncommittal grunt. “I was worried about you, you know. I was worried you got hurt.”

“Who would hurt me?”

She doesn’t say anything.

“Maybe I was having such a good time,” I say, “that I stayed late.”

“If there were to happen,” she says, “you would have called me.”

I stare at the dark space between us, eyes unfocused. “Yes,” I agree. “I would have.”

I hear Polly shift on the couch, leaning forward. “Waldi?”

My mouth moves without thinking. “I talked to Sofie Schotek.”

Polly doesn’t say anything. I glance at her. She isn’t making an expression.

“She says I’m weird.”

Polly sits up, air escaping from her lips. “God, she’s such a bitch sometimes,” she mutters. Then she says, “Forget about it. You said Franzi and his friends seemed nice?”

“Yes?”

“You don’t sound so sure.”

“I thought they were.”

“They weren’t?”

“Franzi was handsy.” I shrug. “I feel tired, Polly. It was a big event, for me.”

Polly reaches out and tugs the washcloth free from my pocket, wrapping it around her fist. I flinch, fingers digging into the couch. “What do you mean by ‘handsy’?”

“He touches me.” I shrug again, like it’s the only motion I know. “He never asks.”

No response. She stares at the washcloth.

“He didn’t ask me. He didn’t ask you. I’m not offended; he doesn’t know to ask. But even you don’t...” _Don’t say it. If you say it, it’ll imply all sorts of things. She might get the wrong idea. Some implicit permission._ I abort the sentence, in favor of safer waters. “Just a bit foreign,” I settle on. I rub my wrists, staring at a fixed point behind her ear. “I’m not into...contact.”

She rolls her eyes, tapping the sofa. The washcloth flops around her hand. “Incredibly evident, don’t worry.”

I think about my offer, the other night. I think about Polly’s skin, how it would feel against mine. I wish I didn’t feel so revolted, like wet trash slopping off of me. There’s both desire and repulsion, too tightly knotted together for me to unwrap. Disgusting. Why is that disgusting? I frown. It’s very dark in this room. I should have turned on a light. But there’s something comforting about standing in the darkness; there’s something comforting about being swallowed by the negative space around me.

Polly’s with me in the darkness, though, and the dim streetlights reach through our rain-stained window with wobbling, searching fingers, dripping pale streaks of yellow down her round face. She’s striped, like a tiger prowling through the undergrowth of a jungle.

“You don’t feel well,” she states.

I cock my head, tasting her tone. I can’t decipher it. It’s so plain. Polly often likes to offer observations, though, even if they’re obvious. She wants to know if she’s reading this situation correctly. The trouble is, as it often is, that I’m not sure if she’s right or not. “I’m just tired,” I reply. That much, I do know.

“That’s understandable,” she says slowly.

“It’s stupid.” My words come out in a clumsy rush. I let out a strangled laugh, my insides warm and vibrating with rough, tremulous emotions.

She hums. “No, I don’t think so.”

My eyes dart to the washcloth, unraveling from around her knuckles, still tightly clenched between her fingers.

When I look up, Polly is giving me a searching look. I never know what she’s trying to find. Whatever she sees doesn’t seem to satisfy her. “You know I care about you, right?”

“Yes, Polly.”

She stares out the window, grimacing. The shadow of rain clings to the glass, interrupting the glare of a passing car, dark droplets dribbling down her face and off her chin in thick globs. “I don’t want you to be sad. You seem very sad, a lot. I wish you would talk to me.”

“Oh.”

She turns her eyes back to me, twin headlights. “I don’t want you to do things you don’t want to do. If you don’t want to do something, I don’t want you to do it, either. You don’t need to go to that game.”

“Okay.”

Loose air escapes her mouth. “Does that make sense? I don’t think I’m phrasing this right, but I don’t really know how to explain this in a way that makes sense to you.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you’re trying to say.”

“I just mean that. I.” She settles her hands between her knees, fingers looping together. The washcloth, still damp, drools water between her knuckles. “Okay, let’s start with something basic. Let’s talk about the other night.”

“The other night,” I echo.

“You don’t owe me for taking you out of Sofie and Franzi’s apartment. If you don’t want to go, you don’t have to go. But you can’t be cooped up here all the time. It’s not healthy.”

“Okay,” I say blankly.

“And about what you said, after we got home.” She glances at me, frowning. “Right. I’m not interested in exchanges like that. We’re not going to do that. No favors, no rewards. Stop asking me.”

“Oh.”

She bites her lip. “I really do not want us to have any currency. Especially stuff like that. Especially love life stuff. That shouldn’t be-- I just. None of that. I draw the line there, okay? This isn’t... We can make this work better, if we keep that out of the equation.”

“Sure,” I say. I set my hands on either side of me, fingers digging into the couch fabric. But the truth is this: I don’t really know what she means. Marriage _is_ a currency. Five-hundred Kolchens and twenty goats. Marriage is nothing but a currency.

Though, to be honest, part of me feels so empty that I’ll take anything I can get from Polly. When I offered to eat her out, part of me meant that, I think. But I’m not sure. I don’t think I want that in particular. Not... I don’t know. I just know what I was told to expect, and nothing has lived up to any of my expectations. I have no script to work from. And I feel so empty and confused. I feel untouchable and alien. I’m broken, inside, and I’m not sure how to fix it.

I wonder, often, if Polly experiences buyers’ remorse.

“It’s an awkward topic,” she continues, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I know we have...difficulties. But I’m not going to push you on it. I don’t want you to push me, either. We’ve got to talk this out. Not that I’m, you know, opposed to developments with our relationship. I just.” She struggles. “Only if. I want you to want it. If that makes any sense...”

It doesn’t.

“I know you don’t get it. I don’t know why I bother. I guess-- I guess, because I _have_ to bother. This isn’t okay. You’re clearly miserable. I don’t... I don’t _want_ that, Wally. I want you to feel okay. I think things have never been...easy...for you. Considering everything.”

‘Considering everything.’ What a fine way to refer to a life.

“I care about you, Wally,” she says firmly. “You’re my top priority. I don’t know what happened, tonight. I know it’s hard for you to reach out, but I think it’s important. I also think, if you know your own limits, you should say no to things, though. If this was bad for you, I want to make it clear that I don’t expect you to do anything with Franzi.”

I don’t know what happened tonight, either, though. It’s a dizzy blur, the memory’s ink smudged across a crumpled page in my mind. I frown, drumming my fingers. “She said you’re weird, too.”

Polly eyes me. I can hear the rain thudding against the glass, dull and deadened. “Sofie?”

“Yes.”

She looks out the window, licking her lips. “Who cares what she thinks?” she says, after a moment. Her words have been very careful tonight, I think, but the mood seems to have shifted somewhat. I’m grateful for that. “I don’t care if Sofie thinks I’m weird. _She’s_ weird.”

“She said you’re weird, because of me. She thinks _we’re_ weird.”

“So? She can go fuck herself.”

“It was disrespectful,” I explain, feeling short of breath. My throat is tight. Polly should know all this. Polly should understand the dishonor inherent in such flippant referral. Schotek is a revered historian, saying such unpleasant things about Polly, the heir to the Hochsprach family. “She can’t say things like that about you. She thinks our whole relationship is weird. I’m a smear on your reputation, Polly. I’m so sorry.”

She studies my face, seconds dripping by, before saying slowly, “Things don’t work like that, here.”

“Oh.”

“People say a lot of stupid shit, here. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“She still shouldn’t have said that.”

“Sofie doesn’t know when to hold her tongue. She isn’t like you.”

I take a deep breath, letting it settle in the bottom of my lungs.

“Do you really care what she thinks? I don’t.”

I give a helpless shrug. “I guess not.”

“You mean more to me than Sofie,” Polly says flatly. “Do you understand? You haven’t embarrassed me. Do I look embarrassed?”

“No.”

“Yeah, because I’m not. I’m annoyed, but it’s not at you, as a person. I’m frustrated that you do things you don’t want to do. I’m frustrated that you won’t speak to me. I’m frustrated that you come home and don’t tell me. I’m frustrated that you think you need to perform sexual favors to settle scores that don’t fucking exist.”

I swallow, staring at her with dumb cow eyes.

“When you come home, you need to tell me,” she says. “Do you understand why?”

“Yes, Polly,” I mumble. She was worried. She was worried about me. It’s a matter of respect--husband to wife--but Polly also worries. I don’t know why, but Polly worries.

She fidgets with the washcloth, stretching it between her hands. “I have no problems with you, on a personal level,” she says, sounding distracted. She shifts her weight on the couch. Her shoulders flex like a quadrupedal animal, jerking with the motion. She turns her eyes toward me. My heart hammers, heavy in my chest. I don’t want her to look at me and see me, I realize. “I just wish you’d talk to me. But I understand, it’s... Our situation. It’s really. Not ideal.”

I shake my head. I’m not sure what I’m rejecting. I can feel her hand creep across the couch, a hair’s breadth from my wrist. The washcloth slides against my knuckle, warm and wet, rough like a goat’s tongue.

“You have such fine bones,” she murmurs, like she’s not even talking to me, like I can’t even hear her.

I swallow, closing my eyes. She could grab me, now. She could crush my wrist, drag me onto the couch, chew me up. A rabbit, wriggling in a stoat’s jaws. Maybe I want that. On a deeper level, I know I don’t. I’m just desperate for some sense of sanity, some source of stability. Polly is all I have, now. Maybe I’ve sublimated her wants and desires into my own.

How disturbing would that be.

But Polly doesn’t touch me. Polly is no predator, despite our circumstances. It’s a confusing relationship, isn’t it? She forced me into this, but she doesn’t force anything else. Not really. Not that I can tell, anyways.

It would be so much easier if she did force everything else.

“I should sleep,” I say, throat dry and aching.

“Mmhm.”

I stand up too quickly, dizzy with the motion. I duck my head, chin knocking against my chest, teeth clacking. “I’ll tell you. When I’m home, from now on. I’m just tired. I haven’t been thinking straight. I’m sorry. Goodnight, Polly.”

“Goodnight,” she says absently.

I don’t look at her, keeping a tunnel vision on my doorway. The doorway of my room. I close the door behind me carefully. If I don’t, I’ll slam it. I lean against it, sighing. I close my eyes. I don’t hear any movement, outside. Polly is so still, in the living room.

I reach for the doorknob, fiddling, skin sliding over the cool metal until it’s warm against my palm. The pads of my fingers rub against the smooth dip of the handle, and the rough woodgrain beneath it. This door is a gate. This door is a wall.

I twist around to stare at it dumbly.

This door has no lock.

\- - -

There is a monster spirit, in Kolnoskan folklore, called the pràda. The pràda is a particularly vacuous creature, with many layers of sharp teeth used for devouring a whole menagerie of material. “Pràda” comes from the old Kolnoskan word for “man-eater.”

It stands outside of houses in the darkness, staring into windows with owlish eyes and trembling lips. One may see its glittering irises through the darkness if one were to press a face against the cool glass of a window. This is ill-advised. The pràda may ask to be let indoors, if one catches its eye. It looks so pathetic, when it hides its razor teeth behind its thin lips, that one may feel obliged to do so. I would not recommend this course of action. 

The pràda is, after all, a voracious eater. Its stomach will never fill. The pràda is indiscriminate in its appetites. Dogs, horses, goats, pots and pans. I believe the pràda ate my father’s spare pair of boots, when I was eleven. Whenever something goes missing and cannot be found, the pràda has devoured it. It is common practice, even in urban areas of Kolnosk, to say that the pràda “ate” something that one has lost. Socks, car-keys, grocery lists. The pràda eats whatever will fit in its mouth.

It is so stupid, it knows no better.

The pràda is reviled, even among more immediately threatening mountain spirits. It has no friends or allies. No one interacts with the pràda. Maligned, it has never known companionship. It is lonely, and it eats to ease the pain. The lonelier it is, the more it consumes, and the more it consumes, the lonelier it becomes.

Some believe there must be a moral to such a monster, but I don’t agree. Sometimes, things just are. The pràda is a dumb clod, eating spoons and shoes and spare tires, something easy to place the blame on. It’s a specter that offers explanations. Lonely and vicious, skulking in the backyards of the superstitious.

Certainly, it is an oddity of Kolnoskan culture. Children leave out table scraps for the pràda, on their doorsteps. No one except children bothers giving such a creature the time of day. When I was a child, I never opened my door, for fear of encountering it.

While initially unthreatening, and usually docile throughout a given exchange, the pràda has a hidden terror. As an ultimate omnivore, it is naturally deserving of the moniker “man-eater.” They say the pràda, in its desperate hunger, has devoured children whole, its teeth slicing their muscles into fine filets.

Therefore, no one should let it inside. No one should acknowledge it at all. It’s Polly’s favorite folktale, however. Polly has always defended the pràda. _I just think it’s such a fumbling, weird thing,_ she’s said before. _Maybe if it had someone be nice to it, it wouldn’t be so hungry all the time._

But trusting the pràda has the potential to prove fatal. The positives cannot possibly outweigh the threat. The pràda, beneath its pathetic veneer, is a predator. One never gives an inch of skin to a leech, or it will latch onto an artery at the earliest opportunity.

 _The pràda doesn’t want to eat children,_ Polly’s said before. _It cried, in The Miller’s Daughter story. Don’t you remember how that one ended? That proves my point._

Doesn’t matter.

_Maybe the child-eating is just a myth. Maybe the pràda needs a PR campaign._

Well, I won’t be fronting it.

The threat is too great. One mistake is enough, isn’t it? A creature that can eat, and eat without measure. It’s a black hole waiting to crush all matter in its gravity. I refused to look out windows at night, for fear of catching the wood-stove’s light reflecting off of eyes in the distance. Twin diamonds, wanting whatever I had. I never had enough for myself; I couldn’t afford to lose anything more. Even if it means well, neither a predator nor a parasite can change its nature.

No. There’s no real moral to such a strange creature. It’s only odious. It’s just a stupid story.

I’ve had so many dreams about the pràda.

It doesn’t mean anything at all.

Such a lonely, wretched creature. Polly probably pities it.


	2. Free Press

“We’re meeting with Free Press on Saturday.” Polly cants her head to watch me as I do the dishes. “I set that up, this morning. It’s going to happen.”

“Okay.”

“If you’re sure you’re ready for that. I don’t know this new guy.”

“I’ll be ready.”

“Still confident,” she notes. She absently flips through the pages of her Standard-Kolnoskan dictionary. I’m always clearing it off the kitchen table and placing it on the coffee table in the living room. It finds its way back, every time.

“Is that a problem?”

“No, I’m just...impressed. Sure. You waffle on this stuff, usually.”

I waffle on my writing ability and my final- _final_ drafts. That’s fair. But I feel a serenity with all my stories, in the end; they turn out exactly how I want them to turn out. Everything exists exactly as it should, in each story. I like my writing. It’s the only thing about me that I find compelling. And just twenty-eight thousand people in the world can even read it.

Well, way more can read Polly’s translations.

“Sofie said I should send her a copy of your upcoming publication?”

I shrug. “Yeah, she said she wanted to read it.”

“Hm.” It’s an unreadable sound. “Alright, then.”

I start drying the pot I used for oat slaw. Polly doesn’t prefer it, but it’s filling and it makes for good leftovers. She never complains when I make it, either. It’s the only family recipe I have, so I probably make it more than I should. Maybe I should ask Franzi if he-- He doesn’t. Franzi probably doesn’t have any recipes. And if he does, it’s food I’m not especially interested in eating. Food from here. I don’t care about it.

“We should go out more,” Polly says.

“Go where?”

She doesn’t say anything, but I hear her shift against her chair. I stare at the soapy water in the sink with glassy eyes. I think I’d like to go to bed. Sometimes, if I concentrate hard enough, I can hear the groaning of all the joints in my hands. My fingers are just swinging hinges, like barely bolted-on doors hanging off of frames.

She still doesn’t say anything. She won’t say anything. Another dead end. Always dead ends. Our conversations are cars careening off of docks. No. Nothing quite so dramatic. They’re paths winding into the woods that suddenly stop before a large crevasse.

Where would I want them to go, though? Where would I want those paths to take me, anyways?

\- - -

“I’m writing a cultural history of Kolnosk,” Schotek says, sinking into Polly’s favorite armchair. “I’m writing a history of all the states of Argrea. I figured I’d start with the mainland, and then move on to the two island states.”

I incline my head, standing by the window with my hands loosely locked in front of me. “That’s very impressing.”

“Thanks.” She taps at the arm of the chair. My eyes dart to her pack of cigarettes, on the coffee table. I haven’t smoked in such a while.

Polly’s in the kitchen, fumbling with the refrigerator. I love the refrigerator. We had an ice box, back home, but never a refrigerator. We stored most things in the cellar, and we kept milk in the ice box. We had a lot of milk. Goat milk.

People don’t drink straight milk, here. They just put it in their coffee or their food. I had mentioned it casually to Polly, that I couldn’t find large milk containers in the store, and she told me. She’d once asked a coworker about it, and he had wrinkled his nose. ‘Babies drink milk like that,’ he had said, she told me. Which is true, I suppose. Babies do drink milk. But that’s human milk. I’ve never drunk human milk.

“Kolnosk is troublesome,” Schotek says, tapping her fingers against the chair. “Your script is different. Just enough to be annoying. It reminds me of when I had to travel to Zuchio, in the east.”

Zuchio. Another country. I wonder if the world looks different, there. Another country, it might as well be another planet. I think I’d like to go, someday. I’ve never left Argrea. This country. How strange is it, that Schotek and I are technically from the same country? The people here may as well be from Zuchio, as far as I’m concerned. They’re undoubtedly foreign. Even the architecture is different, here. The clothes, the cars, the weather. I’m ignorant to what connects us as countrymen. Borders I don’t understand, I suppose. I was never one for politics. Just like Franzi.

Maybe Polly and I could be tourists, someday. Go to Zuchio, or someplace else. A place neither of us has ever been. We’d both be lost, but together in that sense. On the same footing. Equals, in an impermanent situation.

“Zuchio is at the ocean, right?” I ask, rubbing my knuckles absently.

“A lot of it borders the North Ocean, yes. People don’t often live there, though.”

“What do they speak at Zuchio?”

Schotek arches an eyebrow. “Zuchian.”

“Oh.”

“In Zuchio,” she says, “their roads are blue.”

Blue roads.

“They have a king,” she continues, leaning back further in the chair, like a languishing cat. “His name is H’up Noch Yamada. Doesn’t even sound like a real name, does it?”

“I’m not sure,” I murmur.

Schotek offers me a blank look. She drums her fingers. “Right,” she says. “Well, they have very tall buildings, over there. Taller than mountains, and almost as wide. People can spend entire winters inside those buildings. In the capital, all the buildings connect through tunnels. Underground paths.”

“Must be difficult to heat.”

Schotek snorts. I suppose it was a silly thing to point out. But I do wonder how such structures are built. How many people need to work on them, how many resources. It’s dizzying. I imagine great plumes rising from smokestacks, mingling with the natural clouds hanging over these monolithic cities. The image is both intriguing and repulsive. I’m not sure of the cause for either emotion.

It would be nice, I think, to go there. If even just for a weekend. I wonder if Polly knows Zuchian. I should ask her. She’s must have heard Zuchian music on the radio. It’s popular, I think. I’m not totally sure.

“I can’t find the ice cubes,” Polly calls to me.

“They’re in the back, top shelf,” I say. “I can get them, if you want.”

“No, it’s fine.” Glass bottles rattle against each other as she roots through the contents. I hold my face in a neutral position. I don’t want to think about what chaos she’s unleashing. Polly always seems to forget objects are breakable.

“What’s she doing in there?” Schotek asks me.

“Getting the ice cubes,” I tell her.

“For what?”

“Drinks, I think. She didn’t tell me.”

Schotek grunts.

I lick the roof of my mouth, looking at the doorway to the kitchen. “Could you talk to me about more Zuchio, please? It’s very interesting. Have you heard their music?”

“No,” she says. “And no. I don’t feel like talking about it.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Schotek drums her fingers on the chair.

Polly enters from stage left. Interior, kitchen doorway. She sets two glasses down on the table by Schotek. Schotek blinks slowly, like an old, sleepy dog.

“You guys should speak Kukisch,” Polly says, offering me the last glass. The surface is wet with perspiration.

I delicately take it from her, handling it from the bottom. I shake my head, wiping down the glass with my fingers. “I wouldn’t know what should I say.”

“I only speak a little, anyways,” Schotek says, voice cutting through the air.

I glance down at the open notebook. ‘Federal records management administration’ sits next to ‘May I please have [x]?’ Strange bedfellows. There are a lot of disparate words on the page. Street sign examples and grocery items. There’s instructions for flagging down a taxi. It’s the Kukisch vocabulary for taxi, though, not the regular word. They use a different word in Rigàna.

“Maybe sometime,” I say.

“Sure. Maybe.” Schotek takes a delicate sip from her glass.

I absently wipe the perspiration from mine, fingers rubbing in the same routed action. It was nice of Polly to give me a drink. I should be glad about that. Part of me just feels tight and cold, though, coiled up like a threatened snake. I’m not sure why. Maybe I’m just nervous about tomorrow. I should have definitely gotten the drinks. Maybe that’s it. Polly shouldn’t get me anything. I don’t want anything she gives me.

These are all muted senses, though. Nothing serious. I am, after all, prone to meandering melodrama at the most inopportune times.

“...and it’s a matter of principle,” Schotek says, taking a sip from her glass. She always moves so delicately, like an aristocrat. There are no aristocrats in Argrea, though. I learned in school that there used to be, before the country centralized. It’s better now, we were taught, but I’m not sure. I don’t know much about that stuff. We still have esteemed families in Kuk. Rich houses and political family names. That seems like the same thing, in a sense, but maybe not. I suppose it doesn’t really matter, either way.

“I can’t say I agree,” Polly says, “but whatever. It’s not my problem.”

I look between them. It doesn’t matter what they’re talking about. I wouldn’t understand, anyways.

“You would say that,” Schotek responds coolly. She looks up and our eyes meet. I quickly tear mine away.

“Anyways.” Polly takes a long swig of water, the line of her throat flexing with the motion. “Anyways, I don’t really care what you’re doing or why. The less detail you give me, the better.”

“Sure, sure.” Schotek cups her face, slouching to the side. “Hoffenthal told me I could read his story.”

“waldi? Yeah, he told me.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Think I can just grab it, now?”

“Now?” Polly blinks, glancing at me. “Uh, yeah.”

“It’s getting late, so I should probably go sometime soon,” Schotek says, words leaving her lips with a lazy air. “Franzi’ll be expecting me home before dinner.”

“Right.” Polly gets up, setting her glass on the coffee table. A water ring forms around the bottom, creeping across the wood. My fingers twitch.

Schotek turns her eyes to me again as Polly’s bedroom door swings open and clicks shut. “How long is it?”

“Huh?”

“The story. How long is your story?”

My back straightens. “Five pages, on copy paper. It will be seven pages, when publication will occur.”

She hums. “That’s really short.”

“All of my stories are short.”

“That’s really short, though.”

I shrug. “I don’t know. That’s how long it is.”

Polly tosses a stapled clump of papers onto Schotek’s lap. I hadn’t even heard her door open again. “Don’t lose that. It’s one of three copies I’ve got and it’s the best one.”

Schotek ruffles the corners of the carbon copy sheets. “I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be; it was the top one on the pile. That’s why.”

She snorts. “Either way. Thanks. I have a big conference I need to attend. It’ll be very boring. I’ll be glad to have something to read.”

“Sure,” Polly says stiffly. “Just keep it to yourself. It isn’t published, yet.”

Schotek rolls her eyes. I frown at her. She stands up, cracking her back, gaze drifting over the doorway.

“Whatever. We’ll sort that out soon, anyways.” Polly tucks her hair behind her ear.

“Thank you for reading my story,” I say, nodding my head.

“I haven’t read it yet,” Schotek points out, tucking it under her arm. “But I’ll read it. I liked your last story.”

“Thank you for reading my last story.”

She shoots Polly a look. “You married--” A word.

There are so many words I don’t know. But this is an intensely foreign-sounding word. Maybe it isn’t even Standard. It doesn’t sound positive, regardless. I’ll remember it, though. I’ll remember it because of the expression on Schotek’s face when she said it.

“He’s just awkward,” Polly says. “Especially in Standard. Don’t mind him.”

“Quite the thing to say about your husband.”

She shrugs. Schotek frowns, squinting at her. I don’t understand the cause. Polly isn’t wrong. No, she’s not wrong at all. She’s right. But Schotek stares at her openly as she packs up her notebook and shoves the manuscript into her messenger bag.

Polly looks away.

\- - -

My bedroom has no windows. It’s better that way, I think. It’s dark, even in the middle of the day. I don’t have to draw any blinds. And I hated windows, as a child, anyways. I had a crooked window in my bedroom, growing up. I used to be terrified that looking through the dusty glass wouldeither transport me to some other world or invite some other world into mine.

When I’m in my new bedroom, I am totally separated from the outside. No one can see me. If anyone wants to come inside, there’s only one entrance. The door. I spent this morning tracing the walls after I woke up, so I know. There’s no other way in. I’m okay with that.

Even without a lock, it isn’t as though I don’t have measures to secure my safety. There’s a desk on the wall by the door and I could push that in front. I could lodge my chair under the handle and push my dresser across the room to form a makeshift barricade.

That’s enough, I think as I stare up at the dark ceiling. A dim light bulb dangles faintly above me. I never had a light bulb in my old room, in Kuk, but I did have a ceiling stain. This serves as a sort of replacement companion, I suppose. Perhaps a light bulb is an upgrade. Although I can’t see it, I know it’s there. My mind fills out the shapes, tricking my eyes. It’s there, even if I can’t actually see it, after all, and I know precisely where it is, its exact shape and form.

Visualization. It’s an important part of the writing process. Right.

Not the only part, though. I blink, but it doesn’t change anything. I curl my hands into fists and tense them, feeling the shiver up the tendons of my forearms. There’s a wiry strength looped over my bones, solid and animal. It’s enough. It has to be enough.

I’m stronger than I look.

If I were to get the first punch in, I could definitely turn most altercations in my favor. The light bulb dangles above me and I can envision the curled fibers at its center, delicate and electric. The light bulb is made of glass, and glass cuts through skin faster than most knives. Glass is so sharp, one wouldn’t even feel the cut until after the blood burbled out. It’s just above me. I could reach it, if I wanted. I could locate it at anytime. It’s right there.

When I close my eyes, I don’t see anything anymore.

\- - -

“It’s a pleasure, Hoffenthal,” the Free Press agent says, in Kolnoskan. His accent is perfect. He smiles at us tightly.

I glance at Polly, who looks like she ate something sour and is trying not to show it. The man extends his hand toward me and I take it limply.

“Free Press has asked me to run this negotiation on their behalf.” His tongue rolls around behind his teeth. “I assume that will be beneficial to both parties, considering their limitations.”

“You’re from Rigàna?” Polly asks, throat tight and tone lax.

His neck vibrates, grinning. “I was born there,” he says. “My parents are both Rigàna natives, yes.”

She nods, eyes trailing over the file on his side of the library table. It’s thick. I consider what could be inside. Legal paperwork, probably. Polly is so good at placing accents. I guess it comes with the territory. She’s an expert on mouth sounds, after all.

“My name’s Vinny Oschwall,” he tells me, pulling the file toward the middle of his body, “by the way. Ah, we should proceed, shouldn’t we? We need to discuss the issues regarding your new submission.”

I nod, my neck creaking.

He reaches into his bag and slides out a portable typewriter. He fiddles with the levers idly. “Right. The story. I’ve gone through it, at the behest of Free Press, and we’ve all agreed it has some problematic components.”

Right. This again.

Polly bristles at my side, hands tense around her chair, under the table. I cast a line into my brain, trying to pull back everything inherently ‘problematic’ from the story in question. I suppose most concepts I write about are ‘problematic.’ Fiction is just a reflection of life, though, and I can’t much help it. Not if I want to feel honest with myself.

This monster story is certainly ‘problematic.’ I’ve learned that much.

“Problematic in what way?” Polly says, jaw a little tense.

Oschwall glances at her. “We’re concerned some of the violence and social aspects won’t pass censorship.”

“We’ve already gotten clearance! They signed the paperwork; we signed the paperwork. What are you talking about?”

He gives her a long, disinterested look. Polly stares back. I tap my fingers against the table, uncomfortable. Violence and ‘social aspects’ are vague references. “Maybe,” I say, “you are referring to the end?”

“That’s one scene we flagged,” he says, turning back to me. “The other major one was with the...girlfriend? I think.” He shoots Polly a glance. “The original text is murky. She calls it a girlfriend. Which isn’t the word you used.”

The room is quiet. It is a library, after all.

“You’re not a translator, are you?” Polly says coldly. “There’s no word in Standard for that word. The closest equivalent is ‘girlfriend.’”

He hums, rifling through the file.

‘Girlfriend.’ Huh.

Weird.

“Regardless, it isn’t the content itself _per say_ that is the issue. It’s all in the presentation, how it’s framed. Free Press would primarily like to confirm that there are no subversive political stances within the story.”

“Political?” I echo dumbly.

Polly is as stiff and colored as a corpse.

“Under Title 2, Section 601, politically subversive content is prohibited from distribution,” he says, flipping the file open, fingers crawling through the papers before stopping. He spins it around and pushes it toward me.

The highlighted part says, _2 A.C. § 601._ , and then I can’t read the rest.

Polly tugs the file between us. Her eyes flick over the lines of text, frowning. “I’m familiar with the law,” she says. “We wouldn’t have submitted the story if it had subversive content.”

Oschwall offers her a droll look.

“He would never write subversive content,” she says, an edge to her tone.

“I’m sure you’re aware of previous mixed reception from some fringe groups.”

Polly shoves the file away. “He doesn’t know anything about that. He isn’t concerned with politics.”

Oschwall turns his eyes to me. Polly does the same, her face drawn in anxious, tight lines. They want me to say something.

Well. More than something. It’s obvious what they want me to say.

“...I’m not concerned with politics.”

He shakes his head. “You should leave,” he says to Polly.

“No, I’m not leaving. I’m the translator.”

“And you don’t need to translate, so you should go.”

She grips the edge of the table, grinding her teeth. He’s talking down to her. This would never happen, back home. Oschwall wouldn’t be here, period. There would be no issue with my story. My throat is tight with unease.

Shouldn’t I say something? Shouldn’t I defend her? What a crazy situation. Do I step in and say, _‘Don’t talk to my wife like that’?_ Is that what Franzi would do?

“Legally speaking,” Oschwall says, “only Hoffenthal can sign off on any claims toward the political nature of the piece.”

“But I did the translation.”

“And it’s based on the original, with some sparing edits for clarity. And...whatever choice vocabulary you’ve deemed most effective, I suppose.”

“Don’t condescend me,” she snaps. “This is a totally different context than your usual dealings and you know it.”

“I do know.” Oschwall takes the file back. “But the law is the law and Free Press has certain obligations toward ensuring their own legal security.”

Polly’s half out of her chair, shoulders rigid and squared. “The law’s the law and he is my _legal husband,_ which affords me certain--”

“Sure,” I say, mouth moving. “I’ll speak with you.”

Polly shoots me a look.

“My wife’s decisions are final, though.”

Oschwall and Polly both start their separate objections, lips swinging, before thinking better of it.

“As the author, he needs to make a statement,” Oschwall says.

“Whatever. Fine. Sure. Can I talk to him, first?”

“No. You’ll just tell him what to say.”

Her lips settle into a hard line. The chair squeals against the floor as she stands up. “I’ll be right outside. Let me in when it’s over.”

“Of course,” he says, going through his fat file with cool disinterest.

Polly’s hand lands on the back of my chair before she walks away, out the side door. It’s a heavy, wooden door, and it slams shut with a jarring echo.

“Don’t talk to my wife like that,” I say.

Oschwall looks up, humming. “Let me get out some paperwork for you.”

Well. I tried, didn’t I?

Pathetic.

He sets a copy of my manuscript on the table, alongside a carbon copy of Polly’s re-typed translation. “This is the matter of business. We’ve indicated the issues in red. We don’t want any material that can be misconstrued in an unfortunate fashion. I transferred those to an original text copy, so you can scan it quickly and we can negotiate.”

I glance back at the door, behind which Polly is probably prowling like a circus tiger.

Oschwall knocks on the table. I turn back to him. “The primary concern is, well, let’s say the translation. She changes some details in your story.”

“She has to,” I point out. “A lot of details aren’t culturally analogous.”

“Okay. Fine. But you can’t let her negotiate for you, as if she’s the author.”

“Why not?”

Oschwall stares at me.

“If I own the rights,” I say, “then she’s the one who really owns them. Polly owns everything that I own.”

“No, she doesn’t,” he says tersely, face puckered.

I look toward the door again. I can’t help it.

The table rattles. “Please, pay attention.”

“I apologize.”

“Let’s move away from your wife and focus on the agreement.”

“Polly and I are married,” I inform him. “She comes from an old family. That’s just how we are. So I apologize if that comes across poorly.”

“Okay,” he says, tone strange. “Either way, this story needs some substantial re-edits to the translations if it’s going to pass some major censorship directives.”

“You should take this up with Polly,” I say. “I don’t do re-writes, once I’m done, and Polly is the only translator I trust.”

“Can you please just look it over? We need written confirmation from you--the actual author--that you don’t condone various subversive positions.”

“Okay,” I say. “Sure. I don’t really know what the big deal is, but I’d hate to think I condone _any_ subversive positions. I try very hard to be a moral person.”

Oschwall stares at me.

I take the original text copy.

The first sentence is circled. There are red ‘x’s everywhere. Over adjectives, mostly. ‘Trans. re-adjust.’ is frequently written over long lines of text. It’s a very curious thing. There’s a whole paragraph that’s circled, with a strange cursive symbol over it. It’s just a paragraph about the state of farmlands near the northeast coast of Kolnosk. Hardly anything controversial, to my knowledge.

“I don’t understand.”

Oschwall flips through the translated copy. “Where is your issue?”

“All of it? I don’t see where I’ve stated anything political or troubling in nature, I’m afraid. What’s this squiggle with _‘dele’_ mean?”

He opens his mouth, but closes it after a moment.

We’re seeing completely different issues with this story. That much is the obvious problem. I’m not trying to be purposefully obtuse.

“I’m not a politically-minded person,” I admit. “I’ve spent most of my life fairly isolated from other people. The ending is upsetting, so I can understand objections on that front, but I didn’t intend any untoward messages through any of the content.”

“I can see that, after speaking to you,” he says slowly. “This is a bit of a difficult situation.”

“What should I do?”

He eyes me. “You genuinely have no idea what any of this could result in.”

It isn’t a question, so I don’t answer.

“Look,” Oschwall says flatly, “you’re very lucky I understand your position.”

“Thank you.”

He holds up a slip of paper. “This is my contact information. Next time you get into this issue with Free Press, contact me, and I can investigate the claim.”

I take it from him. “Thank you very much. I appreciate your dedication to your work.”

He just shakes his head. “I’ll be discussing this with the editors at Free Press. I may need to do some basic translation edits. No serious redactions. Mostly adjectival.”

Translation edits? “So you’re changing my story?”

“I’ll rephrase that--not edits. Some moderate translation _reinterpretations_ ,” he says. “Nothing fundamental.”

That’s some slippery language. I muddle through it for a moment, weighing it in my mouth. “So my story will be changed.”

“The _translation_ will have some moderate changes to some adjective choices,” he says.

“Then why are there marks all over the original text copy?”

“As far as we’re concerned, there are no issues with the actual story, itself. The mark-ups are related to the translation, predominantly. Your wife’s translation will be the subject of the edit.”

“My wife’s translation is fine, though.”

He wears a wry smile. “Have you even read it?”

“No,” I concede, “but it must be perfect. She knows my writing better than anybody.”

“This is all off the record,” he says.

“Okay?”

“We’ll go on the record, in a moment. Just so you know. You should agree to the translation edits, if you want publication. You haven’t read the translation, so you’re unaware of the issues. Let’s try to be safe, okay? Don’t mention your wife.”

“So you’re going to change her translation? Just to confirm.”

“Yes, very _moderately,_ because she made some editorial errors contrary to your intention.”

“If she did that, then that must be the real intention of the piece in Standard,” I say. “And if it isn’t, then I suppose I’ll just have to accept it. Her word is final.”

Oschwall’s face attempts several aborted expressions, before settling on carefully composed neutrality. “You’re...traditional,” he says, after a moment. “For a young couple.”

“Yes.” I’m not sure what else there is to add to that.

“Kolnoskan traditional,” he amends, though there’s no need. Perhaps he did it for his own benefit. Thoughts are churning behind his eyes.

“Is that politically subversive?”

“No.”

“Okay. Then there should be no issue.”

“You’re going to sign a statement,” he says. He leans over and fishes a tape recorder out of his bag, pressing a button after he positions it. Oschwall certainly carried a lot into this meeting, I think. “We’re going on the record, now.”

“Okay.” I frown. “--Wait. I, ah. You see, I. Well. Will I be able to read this? Legal text can be quite difficult, that is, i-it isn’t--”

He takes out a slip of paper and pushes it toward me with a pen. “Yes, it’s in Kolnoskan. You’ll sign a copy in Kolnoskan and a copy in Standard. They’re the same legal statement.”

And it is in Kolnoskan. I can read this paper.

“And to confirm,” he says idly. “Just to confirm, again: You have no working knowledge of the current iteration of your work’s translation.”

“I haven’t read it,” I respond.

“Alright. Great. Thanks. You can sign, now.”

I pick up the pen.

**I, Waldi Hoffenthal, confirm that I have never taken part in subversive political activity, henceforth referred to as “ideological terrorism” and “terrorism,” knowingly or intentionally against the Argrean state. I have never agreed to acts of ideological terrorism and I have never communicated with terrorism groups. I have never sponsored ideological terrorism. I grant Free Press (headquarters in Bismaché, Poonst, Argrea) the rights to publish my work under this understanding of my position against ideological terrorism. Free Press is not responsible for any inaccuracies or mistruths of the statements within this document.**

**I understand that this legally binding statement may be utilized as an affidavit and will hold up in the court of law.**

**Signature: _____________________ Date: _______**

**Witness: _____________________ Date: _______**

“I can’t sign this without...” I pause.

The recorder clicks. “Okay, off record. Again. You can have your wife come in to confirm the translation,” he says, “but if you ask for her permission to sign this, I’ll have to submit a report regarding her as a suspect.”

“Suspect for what?”

He just shakes his head.

I stand up, the pen still in my hand. Polly is right outside the door, leaning against a wall, staring ahead with a stiff, irritated face.

“Hey,” I say.

She uncoils, frowning. “What’s the deal?”

“There are no issues.” I fiddle with the business card in my pants pocket.

“No issues,” Polly repeats.

“None,” I confirm.

She stares ahead with a concentrated, glossy-eyed expression.

“I have to sign a contract,” I say. “Could you make sure they say the same thing?”

“He drafted a Kolnoskan version,” she states, an odd, wobbly tone in her mouth that I can’t identify. Everyone has been rather strange about this affair.

“I think so? There’s a Kolnoskan one.”

“Okay. Don’t say anything else. I’ll check and then you can sign and then we’ll leave.”

I nod, walking behind her as she approaches Oschwall. He raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t say anything. I suppose we’re on the record, again. Polly stands over the papers, her palms pressed flat against the table.

“It’s fine,” she says, after a moment. She moves away, pulling my chair out. “They’re the same.”

“Well, you can sign them, now, if you choose,” Oschwall says. The recorder clicks. “Off the record, I’d like to apologize for the to-do. This appears to be a confusing situation for you, Hoffenthal. There should be no issue with the story, moving forward. Give me a moment and I’ll send you out with a letter, containing the Kolnoskan contract and a witness statement from me.”

I sign the papers.

Polly taps idly at the table, a sharp staccato. I can hear her bone striking the wood, through her skin. Hands are strange, aren’t they? There’s such little cushioning to them; they’re all sharp angles and dexterous purpose. Oschwall’s fingers dart over his portable typewriter, slapping the carriage return lever, like spiny spiders frantically trying to escape the light.

The light’s everywhere, though.

“Here you go,” he says, folding up the papers and slipping them into an unsealed envelope.

Polly grabs it brusquely, shoulders jerking with the motion.

“Thank you,” I say, nodding my head. He nods back, blinking slowly. It’s strange to have people nod back. I hate that that’s strange to me, now. It didn’t used to be unusual. It used to be normal. It used to be natural.

“Thank you for your time, Hoffenthal and Hochsprach,” he replies. “Please, keep me in mind if you run into any more difficulties of this nature with Free Press.”

“Oh, definitely,” Polly bites out. “Sure thing.”

Oschwall gives her a humoring look, glancing between us. I stand, untethered, for just a moment. I feel like a child. I have no idea what is really happening, here. Instinctively, I must understand, as all children do, the true designs of these people. But effectively, in my surface mind, I am blind.

Polly’s hand darts out, a breath from my shoulder. It hovers, unable to land. I blink. Oschwall’s eyes are Sofie Schotek’s eyes, reptilian and searching. Oschwall’s eyes are appraising and pitying.

My mouth is dry.

“Come on,” Polly mutters, dropping her arm.

\- - -

The main streets of Bismaché compose a winding, serpentine maze of people walking with horse-blinders while cars vengefully tap bumpers. The buildings stretch overhead, into the sky, unseen unless one wishes to appear a vulnerable tourist craning one’s neck, ripe for the swindling. There’s nothing natural or original in all of the city center; it’s concrete and metal and paint and plaster, all fashioned to appear as some sort of habitat of humanity’s own design. It’s disorienting and amazing. I hate it.

I wonder what I would tell Ichma, if I could give her a verdict of this place. _You’d probably like it, but I hate it._ Something of that nature. _You know me; I’m not one for stimulation. So take everything I say with a grain of salt. But I really, really hate it here._

Polly walks ahead of me, hips under shoulders, shoulders snapping with the movement of her hips, very much an animal of this jungle. She holds the envelope between curled, angry fingers, swinging by her thighs.

“Ahm, Polly,” I venture, voice swallowed by the city soundtrack.

“What.”

“They’re changing the translation, he said. Do you--”

“We’re not talking about it,” she says stiffly. “Not until we get home. Maybe not even then.”

“Oh. Okay.”

She darts down the sidewalk with long strides. I take a deep breath, jumping to keep up with her clicking shoes.

\- - -

“You’re a really good writer.” Polly handed back the carbon copy sheets.

“Th-thanks,” I answered, an uncertain fluttering in my young chest. I wasn’t used to positive reinforcement in any sense. I had figured she forgot I even gave her my writing. I had figured she had glanced at it once or twice, curled papers sitting on her bedroom desk, and quietly shoved it into her trash bin.

“I read it twice,” she said. “So that’s why I took so long to get back to you. Sorry.”

“Ah. No, that’s okay. Thanks for reading.”

“Of course,” she said smoothly. “Thank _you_ for sharing it with me. I can’t imagine writing stuff like that. It must have taken a lot of work.”

“Um... Not really... It’s. Not that good.” And the story hadn’t been that good, not especially, it’s true. Too many edits later and some name swaps and it eventually would become Free Press literary journal material, however. Serviceable.

In retrospect, it’s an embarrassingly personal story. I don’t like to discuss it with people; it’s sort of an old shame. But it’s a true story, and it’s a genuine story. I wrote it before I learned how to mask my honesty behind metaphor. Metaphor does a lot, I’ve since realized, to spare authors from indignity.

But at the time, Polly’s praise made me flush with poorly concealed pleasure. I didn’t know how to take a compliment, because I wasn’t used to them. I didn’t understand at the time, but of course I was being rude when I rejected her kindness. Polly was patient, though. Polly had always been patient. That’s her cardinal virtue, I suppose. We all have sins and saving graces.

“I thought the dream part was really creepy,” she said to me, moving her hands around to paint some picture I couldn’t see. “I had a dream about your story, because the dream in the story was so vivid! It was like dream-inception! Don’t you think that’s cool? Like we were dream-bonded, thanks to your story.”

Polly never commented on her appearance of the story. She had a minor role, after all, walking with me to school at the end. But she also never commented on me or my father. Polly rarely said anything about my father, growing up. As we got older, I got a sense of her discomforted emotions toward him, but my father was rarely a topic for polite conversation.

It was infinitely kind of Polly not to discuss the names. If I were in her position, at that age, I would have certainly questioned that decision. _‘Is that what you think of me?’_ I would have asked. _‘You say I make you tired. You end the story, saying you feel empty and alone next to me. What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you so cruel?’_

But Polly’s never commented on it. Not once.

Neither have I. And I don’t intend to do so.

“I don’t know,” I had mumbled intelligently into my shirt.

“It kind of reminds me of that one story,” she said, voice loud and bright. “The old folktale about the Gega and the hunter. This idea of nature taking revenge, you know?”

“Sure.” At the time, I had never heard of that story. The Gega--a forest spirit--submitted a hunter to die a thousand deaths. Or something of that nature. It’s not a story that I’ve ever especially cared for. The Gega never interested me. I don’t especially enjoy karmic justice stories, either; I frequently find them overwrought and hackneyed. I think they’re dumb.

 _It’s just words,_ I had wanted to tell her. _All I did was write down some words._ Which is true, that is all I had done. That’s all I’ve ever done.

They were just words. Nothing so dramatic. Nothing world-changing.

“You don’t seem like you want to talk about it,” she said. “That’s okay, though. I guess it sort of speaks for itself, right?”

I just shrugged dumbly. At the time, I didn’t realize, but I did want to talk about it. I wanted to talk about it so desperately. Unfortunately, I was suspicious of all attention directed at me, and I was always worried about scaring Polly off. She looked at me, after all. She _read my story_.

It was enough to make me physically ill with uncertainty.

“I just think you’re really good.” She bobbed her head. “You should definitely keep writing.”

“Okay,” I answered weakly, fingers rubbing the threadbare strap of my backpack. “I will. I’ll... I’ll do that.”

Polly offered me a smile, simple and wide and encouraging. That was when I decided Polly was on my side. Polly had my best interests at heart. Polly was there for me. Polly and I were on the same team.

It felt so simple, back then. Delicate and uncertain, but sincere. I trusted her in that moment, wholly, and without reservation.

Simple things never lasted.

\- - -

“So, what was the political issue with my story?”

“Nothing.” Polly fiddles with the radio. The big band music hour has had worse and worse signal every week since I’ve been here. I have to assume it emitted a crystal clear frequency back when Polly first moved in.

“They marked up the whole thing.”

“They’re just dumb.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“Me? Why would I be?”

“They said they’re changing the translation.”

“No, I’m not in trouble. It was an accident.”

“You don’t have accidents,” I point out.

“It was an accident,” she says. “That’s what we’re going with.”

“I’m sorry, Polly, I’m just very confused.”

She smacks her fist on the top of the radio, the sound hissing until it slides into key. “Are you questioning me?”

I eye her, frowning.

_Hey there, guys and gals from north to south, it’s Cliff Eument with the latest bops and jangles, real crowd-pleasers tonight._

Polly sighs, ragged and rushed. “Sorry. Like, I’m just. It’s just. I didn’t want to expose you to that. I really didn’t.”

“Expose me to what?”

_Tonight we have a new band from the south-side, Sudorta state, fine boys with some fun tricks._

She shrugs, staring out the window. “The bad parts of this place, I guess.”

She thinks I haven’t seen bad parts of this place? It’s teeming with bad parts. But I know we’re having disparate conversations, right now. Speaking on parallel levels, never intersecting. Running off cliffs into lakes. So melodramatic. Leave it alone, won’t you?

“Wally,” she says, sounding painfully tired, “just forget about it. It’s over. At least for tonight.”

 _I’m worried,_ I want to say. _I wish you would talk to me. Not about anything you don’t want to talk about, I mean. Of course. But something, please. Maybe._ But my words are lodged deep inside, like impacted shit that I’ll never dig out. It would be pointless. And it’s not my place, anyways. It’s never my place. It’s easier, always, if I just shut up and take what I’m given.

_Happy to be here bemchi mach hy oschi okay na welchten um thanks, Cliff!_

“Wow he’s a douche,” Polly mutters, throwing herself onto the couch. The cushions whine frantically for a second before silencing.

I stand behind her, listening to the bass guitar strum over the air waves. Dum-dum. Then trumpet. Doo-doo. I know very little about music. I know very little about anything, I guess.

Oschwall spoke the same language as me, after all, and I still didn’t understand him. I think I’ve run out of excuses.

I take a hesitant step forward. A spike shoots up my leg, sharp from shin to pelvis. Both of my legs are sore, aching points radiating from my locked knees. Polly just lies on the couch. I just stand here. The music is getting fuzzy around the edges, the pulsing drum crackling like burning paper. It’s a slow-dance song.

“Polly,” I say quietly.

“Just leave it alone.” She stares at the ceiling with glassy eyes.

Polly tells me to leave it alone, so I leave it alone. She seems to like the radio, anyways. I wonder if there’s a type of serenity only found in static. 

“Can I get you anything?” I ask, curling and uncurling my fingers.

“No.” She rolls onto her side.

The music hums, distant and muted. The Sudortan boys have strange accents. I’ve never heard a Sudortan speak, before. They’re from the south-most state. We’re from the same country. What a strange patch of land we all occupy, crammed together with an insisted familiarity. I lived on a remote mountain, before all this, where we all spoke the same language but we never bothered communicating. Just static silence in our icy gazes, staring past each other at the walls, too afraid to look outside.

It’s starting to rain again. It’s always raining again. I try to look out the window, but I can only see our reflections in the glass. I look like a startled ghost, wide-eyed and adrift. Thin-lipped and pale, gangly-limbed with tucked teeth. I’m very ugly. Polly is staring ahead absently, curled inward, her left fingers tangled in her hair. Even when she’s upset, she looks pretty. I blink, holding back a cringe. Why cringe, though? I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know very much. Everyone else seems to know so much, while I know so little.

I begin to doubt if any of us is even the same species.

Looking out the window, I feel like my eyes are stuck on an unfortunate portrait. I feel inert and incoherent. I wonder if we’re the actually the people that I’m looking at. Maybe I’m looking at two other people. Maybe I’m looking at another world totally encapsulated in glass, where all the people are disproportioned and miserable. The blue-eyed, pale boy stares at me with stricken curiosity and dread, papery lips unmoving. I hold his gaze, throat bobbing. The music hisses and spits, slinking through tunnels of static.

The rain picks up, droplets blotting out his face until it’s just an unrecognizable mass of shapes.

\- - -

“We’re going out.” Polly tosses me my coat as I creep out of my bedroom.

I blink, cringing against the morning light. My fingers fumble over the threads of the jacket. “Um. Okay.”

“We’re going to the city center,” she says. “By the Remembrance Monument and the roundabout.”

“I know the place.” I rub my eyes, grimacing.

Fuzzy around the edges, Polly folds her arms over her chest. “Okay. Get your shoes on and we’re going.”

“I need to brush my teeth.”

“No you don’t.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Polly walks to the front door, grabbing her coat off the hanger. I lick the inside of my mouth absently. Disgusting. I haven’t combed my hair and I haven’t shaved. Ah well. These things can’t be helped.

“We’re going for a walk,” she says. “I want to go for a walk. Just a walk.”

I don’t point out that we’ll be taking the train to the city center, which isn’t walking. It’s a technical thing, and Polly finds technical things irritating when she isn’t the one bringing them up.

“Did you want breakfast, first?” I ask, instead.

“We’ll get something there.” She fits her arms through her coat.

“Okay.” I watch her run her fingers quickly through her hair, pulling it out from under her collar.

“There’s a coffeeshop I always stop by when I’m at the university,” she says, “so we’ll just go there. Okay. I’m ready. Come on.”

I slip my shoes on and start buttoning my coat, fingers sliding over the front fastenings, as she opens the door. I squeeze through the opening. Her fingers flex indecisively in front of the umbrella stand, before grabbing one and locking the door behind her.

“How’s your new writing going?” she asks as she starts down the hallway.

“Fine,” I answer, following her.

“You still writing a lot?”

“It’s coming along.” I don’t really feel like talking about it.

“That’s good.” Polly is using conversation to fill dead space. She knows I don’t do well with small talk. Not when I’m nervous, anyways. Unfortunately, I’m often nervous. _Just a walk,_ she says. Well. Maybe it’s not all bad. Maybe she’ll offer me some answers, today, now that she’s a little calmer.

I won’t beg. That’s unseemly. I only take what I’m given. I know better.

Down the steps and out the front door. Polly idly flips her key ring between her free fingers, umbrella handle swinging in the cradle of her other palm.

“I’m never sure if it’s going to rain,” she says, keeping up this unnecessary pretense. Maybe it’s for her own comfort.

“It’s always going to rain.”

She hums. “Remind me to stop by the post office when we come back.”

“Okay.”

“And I need you to get groceries, sometime soon.”

“I thought we had food in the fridge.”

“We do, but Sofie’s coming back from her conference on Tuesday and I thought maybe we could invite her and Franzi over for dinner.”

I watch the back of her ear, quickening my footsteps as she moves toward the steps to the train platform. “What do you want?”

“Huh?”

“For dinner, on Tuesday.”

She shrugs. “Something really simple.”

“You’re in luck; I only know how to make simple stuff.”

“I mean.” She waves her hand, keys flopping. “I dunno. We can write a list when we get home.”

“Okay.” I roll onto the balls of my feet for a moment, checking the schedule. Seven-oh-two. The train should be here. It’ll take us to the central train station, by the Remembrance Monument. Franzi’s right--it is a little ugly. He still shouldn’t have said it, though.

The ground quivers. No one has an expression. This is normal, after all.

I first rode a train when I was seventeen. I had to interview with Polly’s aunt in Rigàna. I don’t remember the specifics, anymore. Her house smelt like pressed flowers and moth balls. She looked a lot like Polly’s mother, thin all around and sharp-eyed. I remember that she asked to take a photo of me and I said no.

“I want you to know that I’m not upset with you,” Polly says when we sit on the train.

“Okay?”

Her face quirks, lips pulling into a pucker.

I turn my eyes to the window opposite of us, seats unoccupied. It is a Sunday morning, after all.

“I really thought I could protect you from this kind of stuff. I guess that’s hubris, huh?”

“I’ve got no idea.” I muscle my tone into something soft and assuring. Non-confrontational. I respect Polly’s position in our relationship. Honestly. I do. And if she doesn’t need me to know anything, then that’s fine. It’s for the best, actually, that Polly takes care of everything. “I don’t really understand what’s happening.”

“Right.” She pauses. “Right. Yeah. I guess not. I didn’t really get it, when I first came here, either. --Well, I sort of did. I knew. I just didn’t realize...”

I wait for her to finish her sentence, but she doesn’t. The train heaves as it leaves the station, jerking us to the side. I’m almost used to it, now. I don’t know how I feel about trains. They’re value-neutral, I suppose. They smell bad, but they don’t really spark my ire, otherwise. Maybe I’m better off not judging every single thing.

I take a short breath, letting it fill my lungs, before deflating. Lower shoulders, looser posture. Hands on my knees, open and visible. “I need you to communicate with me,” I say as kindly as I can, “if you want me to understand you.”

Polly’s eyes slide toward me, before lazily looking away. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

I blink. “...I’m sorry?”

“Forget it.”

“Okay.”

Polly takes a long breath, her posture coiling like a serpent over its nest. “So, there’s a weird political climate around here, lately. Maybe you’ve heard some stuff.”

I’ve heard nothing. I’m not into politics. I’m the son of a Kolnoskan goat farmer.

“Nothing major,” she says. “It’s not the apocalypse or anything. Just. Some new shit and some old shit. It’s just converging, that’s all. We were super unlucky getting that Oschwall prick. That’s part of it.”

“What was wrong with him?” His parents are from Rigàna. He’s Kolnoskan like us. He gave me his card.

She shrugs. “Nothing I can prove. Just a gut feeling. Look, I can’t explain a lot of this. But I know what I’ve experienced.”

“Of course, Polly,” I say patiently.

The train screeches, breaks throwing us to the other side. I look through the window at all the people standing on the platform. Everyone looks so gray here. It’s the weather. It’ll rain for sure.

“Come on,” she says, standing up. “The coffeeshop’s only a few blocks away.”

“Yes, Polly.” I walk behind her heels, eyes glued somewhere between her feet and the platform, just low enough to avoid people’s eyes.

\- - -

“Howie’s coming home soon.” Polly idly tore at the grass. “I wonder if he’s got a girlfriend.”

“Maybe.” I adjusted my spine against the tree trunk, bark digging into my skin. “There’s got to be plenty of girls at university.”

“You should talk to him.”

“Why?”

“I dunno. He must have a lot of cool experiences. Maybe you could talk to him about university or something.”

I shifted, untucking my legs. “I’m not going to university.”

Polly huffed. I didn’t pay her any mind. I scooted down, exposed roots pulling up the back of my shirt as I lay on the ground.

The wind was a bit sour, today. It kicked up loose dirt and I had to keep squinting to clear my eyes. The sky was clear, though. I liked clear skies. I liked how they seemed to expand infinitely into nothingness. 

“Howie’s told me all sorts of weird stories,” she said with a casual air, as though the stories weren’t actually that weird at all.

“Hm.”

“Things are really backwards, down there, I guess.”

“Well, it’s a different place.”

“Howie says they’ve got cops that dress up in civilian clothes,” she said, pulling up some more strands of grass. “They write _tons_ of parking tickets, he says. Oh, and everyone’s coats are weird. And they’ve got these--like, these _big_ signs up all over the place, with no words. Just pictures! Apparently they’re ads. Ads of what, though, you know? But despite all that, he says it’s way better than here.”

My eyes followed the motions. I wondered if grass felt pain. It probably did. I decided it was cruel to rip it apart.

“You should definitely go to university,” she said. “You’re really smart.”

“Nah.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“Well, I don’t want to go.”

“I’m going to university,” she said with a strange seriousness.

“Okay.”

“We should go together.”

“No thanks.”

Polly adjusted herself, sighing. “You’re so scared of everything.”

“I just don’t want to go. Why’s that, uh, a problem to you? I can do whatever I want.”

“Yeah? You’re definitely scared. You don’t even go in the woods behind my house. You always cry.”

“I’m not going in the woods,” I said flatly.

“See! You’re still seriously scared? There’s nothing in there.”

“That you’ve seen.”

She rolled her eyes. That made me feel a little smaller, but no less unsure.

“I’ve seen things,” I admitted solemnly.

“Yeah, in your dreams.”

I saw things in the border-town between sleeping and wakefulness. That didn’t make anything any less real. Everyone knew that monsters occupied this space most frequently. “I’m sick of arguing about this,” I said. “You always make fun of me.”

She opened her mouth, before closing it. Then she said, “I’m not making fun. Well, maybe I used to, when I was fourteen or whatever. But I was a jerk, then. You just worry me.”  
Condescension with worry didn’t make it any less of condescension. I hummed, unimpressed.

“Anyways.” She coughed lightly. “Anyways. You should talk to Howie. If not about university, maybe about other things boys talk about. I don’t know. Girls or architecture or something.”

“Architecture?”

“Like I said, I don’t know! All you ever do is hang out with me, if you hang out with anybody. You should talk to Howie. I’m sure he wants to talk to you, since-- You know, he’s a really calming presence.”

“I know,” I conceded. I looped my fingers over my stomach, looking up with glazed eyes. The tree’s leaves swayed gently, framing the infinite sky.

\- - -

“What do you want?” she asks as we sidle into line.

“Whatever you get is fine.” My eyes rake over the board above the barista’s head. I can read some of it. ‘Coffee’ and ‘milk’ are there. ‘Special today’ in yellow chalk over a few items.

“Tschünsk coffee’s really popular lately,” she says distractedly, rubbing her hands over the umbrella handle. “I think it tastes like piss.”

“How do you know what piss tastes like?”

She shoots me a look, lips quirking. “It tastes like piss smells. Happy, genius?”

I shrug. Polly really does hate technicalities.

She turns forward again, shuffling with the crowd. I watch the umbrella tap idly against the tile. “All kinds of foreign coffees are in,” she says, “but I mostly drink coffee from Villich.”

“You don’t like domestic coffee, here?”

“No, they make it too watery.”

We continue the slow dirge toward the barista. I would hate to work in a place like this. It requires constant human interaction. At least it’s mundane interaction, I suppose.

“What do you want?”

“Whatever you’re getting is fine.”

“I’m getting an espresso. I don’t think you want that.”

“Okay.”

Even through the din of people mumbling around us, I hear her tongue click. I don’t care enough to argue. It doesn’t really matter.

“We need to talk,” she says flatly.

Apparently, yes. And we do. We need to talk. But I don’t know what I’m allowed to know, what Polly wants to tell me, how much I can request. Polly has a right to her own business, after all. And I am part of that business.

“Ah. About what?”

“What else? That stupid publication deal.” She clearly doesn’t care to deal with my feigned ignorance.

“Oh. Well, you’re handling it, aren’t you?”

She groans, mouth closed.

I straighten my spine, reflexively. “I’ll know whatever you want me to know. What’s happening?”

“Wait ‘til we sit down,” she says.

“I don’t want to be disrespectful, Polly, but--”

“Cut it out.”

I close my mouth, teeth clacking.

“You don’t need to be so dramatic about it.” She readjusts her grip on the umbrella handle. “I don’t want to play that game. We’ll talk when we sit down.”

A man limply waves to us from the counter. Polly slides over and I follow, tethered. She’s been in such a strange mood since we had that discussion with Free Press. Oschwall. I think of his card, placed in my desk drawer.

“What can I get you?” the barista intones, eyes on his hands.

\- - -

“There’s no need to keep up pretenses,” she groused, reaching for her coffee cup. “We both know why you’re here. And I’ve already heard everything about you that I need to know.”

I cocked my head and offered nothing. Not out of any sense of spite--I just had nothing to say. She’d said it all.

She gestured at the couch. “Sit.”

I sat.

“Waldi Hoffenthal,” she said, pronouncing my name as if she wasn’t sure she liked the taste. “Right. You married Polly. You’re part of the Hochsprach family, now.”

“Yes.”

“Your wedding was pleasant?”

“Of course, Hochsprach.”

“And afterwards, I trust.”

“Of course.”

She didn’t look at me. It was probably for the best. I wasn’t an especially interesting specimen, anyways, and I preferred it that way. “I’m skeptical of placing you in my will.”

Polly’s aunt apparently followed the proud Hochsprach tradition of refusing to employ any measure of social subtlety.

“You’ve contributed nothing to the Hochsprach estate,” she pointed out. “If anything, you’re somewhat of a liability. Your father’s farm has fielded multiple losses, in the past.”

I was intimately aware of this fact.

“On the other hand, if some unfortunate event left you a widower, it would be remiss not to have you on the books in some regard.”

I cleared my throat. Her eyes snapped to me, sharp and flinty. She hadn’t offered me a drink or anything when I had been ushered into her home. Polly’s aunt had never married, and as such domesticity had never had the opportunity to soften her out. I had never met her before this, but Polly had told me stories.

“You have something you want to say?” she asked.

“Ah, no. I apologize.”

“You sound a bit hick-ish, you know that?”

I smoothed my hands over my thighs. “Um. Yes. I apologize.”

“I suppose you’ve never really left Kuk before. It can’t be helped. Why Nene sanctioned your marriage is a bit beyond me.”

I blinked.

Polly’s aunt took a long drink from her cup. “Whatever. It doesn’t concern me, beyond the financial business. I trust you’re not a money-grubber?”

“Not at all.”

“You don’t sound especially assuring.”

“I was just surprised.”

“You don’t seem particularly happy about being a newlywed.”

“I’m afraid I’m not an especially expressive person.”

“I’ve heard very good things about your temperament, but our meeting has only made me more skeptical. You sit on my couch like you have a stick up your ass.”

“I have been concerned about making a good impression. I am sorry that I haven’t met your expectations, Hochsprach.”

She leaned back in her chair. “Perhaps I’m just prejudiced. I really hate your father.”

I didn’t move.

“I met him, once, when Nene had me come up in the summer of ‘92. He smelled sour as pickled horseshit. You were just a little boy, then. I suppose you always were a bit different, weren’t you? You were skittish, even then. Though, looking at what raised you, I suppose it can’t be helped.”

“I don’t remember ever meeting you,” I confessed. “I apologize.”

“You probably wouldn’t.” She leaned over her chair and pulled out a cigarette. “I was there for business. And--this might surprise you--I don’t like kids.”

It didn’t surprise me.

“Anyways. It was just business. I don’t remember the specifics, anymore. Either way, let’s get back on topic. Nene sold you to me as demure, and I’ll buy that, sure, but you’re also disordered. It doesn’t take a psychoanalyst to see that you’ve got secrets out the ass. I hate anybody with secrets.”

“I mean no harm to anyone,” I said.

She lit her cigarette, studying me. Open pose, lax jaw, still fingers. I blinked in slow, even intervals. She just shook her head.

I was hardly a man at all, and we both knew it. I wasn’t occupying any new atmosphere; this had happened to me many times before. Something wasn’t right in me and other people instinctively understood this, even if no one could put a name to it. _Disordered,_ she said, but who really knew. I thought I was probably just troubled. If one were to know all the facts, could I really be blamed?

I pressed ahead, regardless. “I understand marriage is, itself, a transaction. I’ve no intention of cheating anyone out of anything. I’m seventeen, and more than ready to uphold my responsibilities.”

Polly’s aunt didn’t say anything.

“Polly and I were very close, growing up,” I said, unable to help the awkward edge clinging to my tone midway through the sentence.

“Maybe you’re just lacking in appropriate socialization,” she said from behind her cigarette.

“Yes,” I admitted readily.

“When did your mother die?”

I watched her take a drag. “Shortly after I was born.”

“Are you educated? Beyond regular schooling.”

“No.”

“Nene says you write.”

“I do.”

“Do you write well?”

“Yes.”

“How am I to know if that’s confidence or just arrogance?”

“I’ll send you my writing, if you request.”

“No thanks. I don’t like reading.”

“Arrogance is unbecoming,” I said. “I understand my place and I try to inhabit it in an appropriate fashion.”

She picked up her coffee cup. “I shouldn’t blame the son for the sins of the father.” She took a drink. “You’re very well behaved. You don’t look like him at all, anyways. I suppose you look like your mother?”

“I suppose.”

She grunted, the noise tinny. She took another sip. “You’re obviously underdeveloped, psychically and physically. Maybe I’m just being a mean old woman to you for the hell of it. You have a good base temperament, that much I can agree. Polly and Nene should be able to mold you into a much less depressive person.”

A garbling laugh tried to push itself past my upper palate, but I swallowed it down like loose puke.

“Just set a good example for Ichma.” She pointed her cigarette at me. “She’s in the middle of nowhere just like you. She needs to have appropriate expectations for the future. You should act more like Howie.”

I wished I could act more like Howie. Howie was responsible and mature and quiet. I was only one of those things, and Polly’s aunt saw through me like wet rice paper.

“Hoffenthal.”

I blinked, spine shivering. “I try very hard to set a good example for Ichma,” I said. “I always have. I am close with Polly’s siblings. We have a good relationship.”

She took a long drag, tapping off loose ash into a tray. She had three ashtrays on her coffee table. “I think you have good intentions,” she said, finally. “And a good overall personality. You’ll get forty-percent of Polly’s inheritance, in the event of her death. Or maybe I’ll change it, I don’t know. That’s the current decision. I’ll discuss this with Nene.”

“Ah. Thank you, Hochsprach.”

“It’s an awkward topic, isn’t it? I’ve been a bit harsh with you.” She readjusted herself on the couch, tucking her feet under her. “I need to take your picture for records purposes. Is that fine?”

“Um. I’m very sorry,” I said, blinking rapidly. “I would...much rather not.”

She studied me, saying nothing. “Hm,” she grunted, after an eternity. “Have it your way. I don’t really care too much. Nene’ll send me a wedding picture, anyways.”

I ducked my head. “Thank you for your time, Hochsprach.”

She waved her arm dismissively. “Tell Polly I say hi. She never visits me, anymore. Too busy speaking to mixed breed Argreans, I guess.”

“Ah. Uh. I will tell her. Thank you, Hochsprach.” I stood up.

Polly’s aunt just shook her head, looking at me from under lidded, reptilian eyes. She didn’t trust me at all. I supposed that was justified. After all, I didn’t trust any of her family, either.

\- - -

The coffee’s intensely bitter. I lick my teeth, keeping my face relaxed. I find it helps to press my tongue against the roof of my mouth, to prevent any real expressions.

Polly arches an eyebrow. “You don’t have to drink it.”

“It’s fine,” I say. “I’m just not a big espresso drinker.”

She takes a sip from her cup. “Well, you didn’t have to get the same thing.”

“I know. I’m not complaining. I’m happy with it. I know. Thank you, Polly.”

“It’s fine,” she says, tone off. “Relax, I’m not mad.”

“It’s not like I could get anything, really,” I point out. “I couldn’t really read most of the board.”

“You could have just asked me to read it to you.”

I stare past her, at a couple of teenage girls leaning in together over their table. I frown. She’s right. I could have done that.

“Wally?”

“Ah. You’re right.”

“Forget about it. It’s not a big deal. Do you want your drink?”

I pull it closer to my body, the cup warm under my palm. “Yeah, it’s fine.”

She shrugs, upending the rest of hers into her mouth. Her throat flexes with the motion, a long line of skin softened by the drizzling light from the window.

“We need to talk,” she says.

“Ah. Okay.”

“You should know some stuff, that is.”

“If you really want to tell me.”

She eyes me.

I clear my throat. “Is there something I should know, Polly?”

She hums in question, wiping her mouth with her wrist.

“Maybe about Oschwall.” I tap at the table. “Or here. I don’t really know what’s happening, sorry.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. This is really complicated, okay? I’m trying to figure out how to phrase this in a way that you can understand. It’s all...really contextual, I guess.”

There’s a strange sense of symmetry between this coffeeshop and Polly’s house in Kuk. Sitting with her at her parents’ dining table, talking about meaningless classes and social niceties. All the things she won’t say, all the knowledge she keeps close to her chest. Maybe some things never change. It isn’t my place to know, though. It’s none of my business. Just like I said to Oschwall. Just like the million excuses and defenses I’ve concocted since I’ve come to Bismaché. This is Polly’s area of responsibility in the relationship. Polly’s supposed to protect me, I guess.

But when has she ever successfully done that?

I fold both my hands over the coffee cup, flexing the muscles in my forearms. I can see the ligaments snapping, taught bands. Something is wrong, but it’s beyond my scope of understanding. If Polly isn’t going to explain it to me, then that’s fine. Polly is a very important woman and she deals with issues in her own way. Issues that could never relate to someone as forgettable as me. Polly’s motivations and vexations are outside of my frame of reference. She’s a very different woman than the girl I grew up with. It’s only been a few years. Nothing is what I expected.

“I don’t understand,” I say slowly. “It’s difficult to appreciate whatever you’re aiming for when I can’t recognize your intentions.”

She opens her mouth, before closing it.

“There’s a problem. I think we can agree on that, at least.”

“There’s only so much I can explain,” she says. “I guess it’s all obvious to me, since I’ve been here and you’re new.”

“If it’s obvious, maybe you can explain it plainly.”

“I’m not a villain,” she snaps. “I’m not acting like this to bamboozle you. I’m trying to talk to you.”

I swallow, throat closing momentarily in anxiety. That isn’t what I meant at all. “I didn’t say you were.”

“I can see it in your eyes.” She tucks her hair out of her face. “Listen. This place has its problems. Should I have explained it to you earlier? Maybe. I don’t know. I still don’t know. Was it fair of me, not to tell you? Of course not. Don’t twist it. I know that. I regret that, in hindsight. But I’m trying to talk to you now. I’m trying to let you in, alright? You have a right to know.”

“I still have no idea what you’re talking about, though.”

She takes a deep breath, chest expanding as she holds it in. “Okay,” she says, lightly smacking the table. “Your writing was flagged by the Bureau of Better Entertainment.”

“Oh.” I have no idea what that means. The Bureau of Better Entertainment. I learned the federal departments in school, but I couldn’t rightly say half of what any one does. I know it ensures that material is safe for public consumption, so kids don’t see violent movies and all that. I’ve never seen any movies. I have no idea what issue they would have with my writing. We don’t even speak the same language, do we? The Bureau of Better Entertainment is situated in Bismaché, so presumably they operate in Standard. What does it matter?

It’s like the cops would come up to Kuk, sometimes. Why? They didn’t even speak Kukisch; they never really understood us. They’d ask strange questions and leave before the week was up. The government doesn’t make sense to me. I suppose I never felt compelled to make sense of it, though.

“Like, a _year_ ago, though,” she continues. “I think it might have been a false flag, since you’re from Kolnosk.”

“Why would they flag my writing just because I’m from Kolnosk?”

She shrugs. “They just do that. I don’t know why. It’s the same with some other states, too. Jotin and Dadansk, I think? I’m not sure. All foreign literature, too. Look, I’m not a politician.”

“Okay. That’s, ah. Weird. But that was a year ago?”

“Yeah. Well, it’s understandable that Free Press is leery of any anti-statist messages in your writing, as a result. That’s all I can come up with, for an explanation. I had a huge fight with them, last month; it ate up way more of my time than I care to remember.”

“But there aren’t any anti-statist messages.”

Her eyes slide over my side of the table, resting on my coffee. My fingers wrap more tightly around it. “Right. And there’s the second issue. So, your audience is pretty academic-oriented, since you’ve been in the University Journal. You understand that, right?”

“Um. Yes.” I don’t know why. I don’t exactly write high literature.

She scratches her face idly, looking toward the window. “Some politically-minded people like your writing. People who are at odds with the Bureau of Better Entertainment.”

“Oh.” I pick up my drink. “Like...communists?”

Polly blinks. “Communists? Uh. Maybe. Sure.”

“Well, you know, they’re political and they don’t like the government. You’re talking about terrorists, right?”

“No,” she says quickly. “I’m not talking about terrorists. No anti-state actors.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“They’re just loud.” She rubs her face. “It’s guilt by association.”

“Ah.”

“Whatever. That douchebag exonerated us, anyways,” she mumbles into her hands. “It’s over.”

I take a sip from the espresso. Still bitter. “You never talked about this, when I was in Kuk. --I’m not trying to question your judgment, of course.”

She eyes me, frowning.

I take another sip. It tastes worse.

“You know, sometimes it’s better to be ignorant,” she says. “Sometimes, it can exonerate you.”

 _Awareness of a threat is the first step to neutralizing it,_ I don’t respond.

Polly offered me answers. Answers I don’t even really deserve. I should be content with that. It’s my own fault that I don’t understand what she meant. Her cageyness just makes me want to end this conversation as quickly as possible. Some things still nag at me, though.

I run a finger over the scratched, glossy finish of the table. “Why come here to talk? Why not just talk about this in your apartment? --Ah, but thank you for talking to me about this, Polly.”

She shrugs. “I just wanted to walk. Grab some coffee.”

I don’t buy that. Well, not entirely.

“Can we just have a normal day?” she asks, strained. “Can we have one day where we’re friends again?”

I open my mouth, but I can’t think of any response. I close it.

Polly takes a harsh breath and swivels in her chair, spine straight. “It was a stupid thing to ask,” she says, staring ahead.

“I don’t know.”

“It was.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Yes, it was!”

Her eyes are bright and glossy above her clenched jaw. The coffeeshop swells with low voices, unaware and uncaring of her outburst. Not that they would know what she said, I suppose. Her tone was rather obvious, though. People don’t really care about anything, here, do they?

She’s in a curious pose, like a doll held up by a taut string, vibrating with the tension through the line. I think about fretting fishing rods, lures bobbing in the swimming hole, back in Kuk. The swimming hole behind Polly’s house, where we spent so much time as kids.

“I wish we could,” I confess. It feels like revealing a dire weakness, admitting it aloud to her. Maybe I’m revealing too much of my hand. I used to trust Polly with everything. That feels so long ago, but it’s only been a few years.

She sighs shakily. “Wally, I--” She stops. She recollects herself, seems to think better of whatever she was going to say.

Maybe I’m supposed to say something, here. Coax her words out of her. I don’t do that, though. I don’t care enough to do so. A strange, sick satisfaction sometimes oozes from my brain stem when I watch her squirm.

I push the cup across the table. “You were right. You can have it.”

\- - -

Polly taps her umbrella against the platform, rolling on the balls of her feet. She stares past my head.

I twist my neck to follow the path of her eyes. There’s the now-familiar slab of off-red metal, shaped like an oblong rectangle, grounded on its corner. It is a little ugly, looming over the train station like some alien monolith.

“I never really got it,” Polly says idly. “Sofie told me it’s a veteran monument. I used to think it was about the First Argrean-Villichian War, but I guess it’s just for every war?”

“I don’t know anything about war.”

She hums. “Me neither. And I don’t get what about it evokes ‘war’ or ‘veterans’ or ‘remembrance,’ even. It’s just a big rectangle.”

“I’m not a sculptor. I’m sure there’s a reason.”

Someone knocks into my shoulder, jolting me forward. Just a passerby. My shoes skid toward the yellow line on the platform with the force.

Polly puffs herself up, hand reaching out and immediately retracting before it can reach its destination. My arm.

I right myself, sliding my feet back in line with Polly’s. I think about Polly and me being friends. We were friends for so long, weren’t we? I had wanted to touch her for what felt like forever. It’s funny how such intense sentiments can shrivel up completely under the proper circumstances. Maybe all our emotions are aberrations of upbringing.

“Train’s almost here,” I say, just to make conversation. Just to move past whatever happened.

“Yeah,” she replies, looking down the track. She doesn’t acknowledge the rasp in my voice.

My arm feels cold, the skin vibrating beneath my jacket. I ignore it.

\- - -

A torrent of papers tumbles out from Polly’s PO box. I watch her slap the box shut a few times until it latches.

“What the hell is this stuff?” She sorts through the letters, grimacing.

“I don’t know.” I lean over her shoulder. She scoots away, opening the post office door and staggering down the steps. I follow. She rips open one after the other, unfolding them aggressively. The color gradually drains from her face with each letter. “Maybe you should sit down?”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” she mutters, shuffling the papers into a neat pile. “You said that like the guys around here would say it.”

“I’m sorry, Polly.” Was I disrespectful toward her? That’ll just have to bother me later. Maybe it won’t. Depends how I’ll feel, I suppose. The good me, the respectful Kolnoskan boy, or the bad me, the bitter goat farmer’s son. My mind is otherwise occupied, regardless. Curiosity is a hell of an amphetamine. “Who sent you all those letters?”

“They aren’t addressed to _me.”_ She slides onto a bench. I sit next to her. She hefts the stack up. “They’re all addressed to you.”

My head jerks. “Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“But I don’t know anyone who would send me anything.”  
“I know.”

“But I don’t even tell people my address.”

“I know.”

“But I can’t even _read.”_

“Look.” She taps at one of the envelopes. “See your name? Your name is at the addressee line.”

I do see my name at the addressee line. The stamp is postmarked two days ago, from a city I can’t read. I can read the symbol for Poonst, though--that’s the same state that Bismaché resides in. Whoever wrote this one is close to us, then.

“They’re all about the same thing,” she continues, flipping through them. The slide of paper rattles in my brain, scraping against the inside of my skull. “They’re about your story.”

“My story?” I echo. Just one story, not plural. I’ve written a lot of stories, over the past few years. It could be any of them. I have no idea what sorts of reception they’ve received; Polly handles the details of that stuff. None have been re-published, to my knowledge.

“The new one.”

“...The new one isn’t out.”

“I know.” She runs a hand down her face, jaw tight. “I know. I _know._ I fucking know.” She takes a deep breath, leaning backwards over the bench. “Fucking Sofie.”

I shift on the bench. The wind curls around us with a familiar, petrichor promise. Rain. “Sofie Schotek? Do you think she shared the story?”

Her eyes turn to me. “Gee, what do you think, Waldi?”

I mumble inarticulate syllables into my jacket.

“With her stupid conference friends,” she spits. “Ugh... We are so fucked, if word gets out.”

“How fucked?”

“ _So_ fucked. Cataclysmically fucked.”

“Right. We signed an exclusivity contract at the initial meeting, didn’t we?” Her face puckers at that. I rush out, “And the translation. The translation is the bigger problem.”

“When we get home, I’m calling her.”

“Is she even home? I thought she was coming home Tuesday.”

She shakes her head. “Who cares? I’m talking to Franzi. This isn’t okay.” She buries her face in her hands, fingers curling to grip tendrils of her hair. “Aren’t you upset?” Her voice is muffled, throaty with emotion.

“It’s a lot to take in,” I say. “I think so. I’m mostly shocked. She really shouldn’t have done that.”

Polly groans.

Am I upset? Maybe. I’m not very good at identifying anything like that. It’s never helped me, before. I feel empty and on edge, mostly. That’s worry. I’m familiar with that one. There’s something else, though, rancid and snapping in my lower stomach and looped around my muscles. My fists creak. I’m tensing my hands, I realize. I smooth them out against my thighs.

“Can I do anything for you?” I ask.

“No,” comes the worn reply.

I settle back against the bench, listening to Polly’s ragged breaths. My heart flutters strangely for a moment, but it calms. I sit with a reserved, appropriately small and appropriately open posture, watching people walk past us on the street. No one looks at us, not once. We are totally ignored. Strangers are invisible in Bismaché. We are both totally invisible, right now. In some ways, maybe this is like Heaven.

“I’m gonna punch her,” Polly says.

“Whatever you want, Polly,” I answer serenely.

I always take what I can get. I listen to her heave beside me, gagging with emotion. I’m empty and fine and I don’t envy her at all. I am the rock in this situation. It’s my duty, I think. That’s an important component of a relationship. Someone needs to be steady, always.

I suppose it’s scary, that people know my name and my address and they read a highly problematic edition of my story. Politically subversive, potentially, even. Maybe something terrible will happen. Polly seems to know of things immeasurably terrible, beyond my scope of prediction or understanding. Maybe they are unspeakable terrors. After all, she’s rendered unable to speak at length about them. The Bureau of Better Entertainment. Vinny Oschwall. I wonder, idly, what it all means.

The rain begins to spit on our cheeks.

\- - -

I lie in bed and I listen to Polly snapping at the phone. It’s muffled through the wooden door, words rattling too fast for me to keep track.

“--and I don’t care about that. Franzi, listen. Listen, Franzi. I-- This is _serious,_ okay?”

There’s an angry tone, sure. But there’s also another, edged emotion that I don’t want to pick out. It’s tense, almost possessive. I close my eyes, but it doesn’t matter. I can still see the ceiling. I can still see Polly’s back, in the living room, shoulders tense as she presses the telephone into the crook of her shoulder. I can see the line of her spine through her thin sleep shift. She isn’t wearing that, though. She’s in her day clothes.

“Just tell her I called, okay? Tell her I called as soon as she comes back, tell her we need to talk. Right. Okay. Thanks, Franzi. Yeah. Bye.”

The clack of the telephone hanging up. Polly’s breathing.

My ceiling hangs above me. I hum, a broken little bar too quiet to properly hear. It’s mostly just air.

Her palm rests on my doorknob. A soft sound, slamming like a heavy rock into my throat. My ears strain. Polly sighs, a ragged, pained sound. And then I hear the lights flick off, in the living room. Polly’s footsteps pad across the floor. Her bedroom door opens and shuts.

She is no longer in front of my door. My throat heaves, loose and rubbery.

I wonder if she’s sitting on her bedroom balcony, looking out on the city, tired and distraught, trying to think of what to do. I remember her strained question, earlier today, and how I had momentarily felt some strange sense of satisfaction. I don’t feel that, anymore. I only feel hollow. I don’t understand very much, I realize. Polly is as much a foreign landscape to me as the city we occupy.

I want her to be happy, I know. But I also can’t help but be resentful. It’s a conundrum for me, one I can’t readily resolve. I wish I could. As bad as the Schotek situation apparently is, maybe it’s an opportunity. Maybe we can be on the same side. I imagine her sitting in her bedroom, tired and worried, and my stomach is tight with disordered concern.

I open my eyes. I think about getting out of bed and walking to her door, knocking with a feeble, hesitant strike of my knuckles. If this were a proper story, she would let me inside and I would sit on her bed and we would look out her balcony window and tell each other all of our secrets. We would say all of the right things, like everyone does in a proper story.

Walking down that dirt road, day after day after day, shooting each other shy looks, and I never even knew. She never told me. She could have, but she didn’t. She never lied, but she didn’t tell me everything.

This isn’t a proper story. Proper stories hold a beautiful simplicity at their cores. This story holds a thorny knot at its center that always stops me.

My eyes flutter. The vision never changes.

\- - -

When I dream, that night, I dream about Polly and me. I dream we’re kids, again, sitting in her backyard. The woods are looming, infested with monsters that eagerly devour children. We’re burning sheets of paper in a bonfire. Every time I try to read one, the fire has already snatched it up.

“Don’t stand so close,” I warn. “You’ll burn your hair.”

“Since when did you care?” she asks, voice fuzzy and accented.

“I do care,” I say. “I care a lot. I care so much.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

“I’m sorry!”

The papers burn. We need to burn them all, but our hands never empty. My fingers sting with cuts. My vision is blurry and disjointed. The pràda prowls by the forest line, bright eyes trained on my young knees.

“We only eat what we like,” Polly says. “We spit out what we hate.”

“Oh. Oh, of course. Of course. Dad, I’m really tired, today. Dad, are you listening? Dad, can you hear me? Dad, am I a ghost?”

“Cannibalism is a metaphor for love,” Polly says. “Consuming.”

“Sublimation of the self into the other,” I croak, throat burning with coals. I want a cigarette. “Loss of identity in devotion. Ultimate sacrifice for the good of another. Compelling fiction theme. Submission guidelines: must be less than five-thousand words. Please attach with cover page, stating title with author name and full word count. Don’t forget to submit your payment for the reading fee, _of course.”_

And the papers burn. Maybe they have dreadful secrets on them. Maybe they’re just bad drafts. I can’t say. I can’t read them. They burn up so quickly. Fire is the great devourer.

I watch Polly open her mouth and stick her tongue out, tasting the embers. My vision wobbles again, before falling apart. I choke on the smoke until my breath dissolves and I tumble into the woods, right into snapping jaws.

I have always feared being eaten.


	3. A Kolnoskan Interlude

I was nineteen when my father died. It wasn’t a sudden thing; he’d been sick. He’d been half-alive for as long as I’d known him, and the rattling gasps of pneumonia ended that stint. It took me several days to notice. I didn’t notice that my father was dead, for several days. Quite the son I am. Was.

I checked his room one morning and it reeked. It smelt like a dead animal. The cool autumnal air had delayed any earnest decay, but his corpse was cold, lying in its own shit and piss. I burned the linens, that day. I burned the linens and I wrapped his body in some spare bedsheets and I painstakingly dragged it into the root cellar. Then I ran down the mountain.

I’d never had someone die on me, before. My mother had gone much earlier, before I even understood what death was. I didn’t know whom to alert. A doctor? Maybe. A mortician? Eventually. But first?

I ended up knocking on Effler’s farmhouse. His son, Urmacht, opened the door. I felt a strange displacement, looking up at strong Urmacht, seven years my senior and the son of a still-living farmer. I remember taking a few steps back, as though I’d been faced with a monster.

“Waldi?” he’d asked. “Is something wrong?”

“My father is dead,” I’d said, without thinking.

I remember that he looked backwards, into the house. The curve of his neck and the line of his jaw and the whites of his eyes as he looked at someone I couldn’t see. “Alright,” he’d said, after this long moment. “We should get the doctor to check. I’ll go into town and call her up. Can you go get the Hochsprachs?”

“The Hochsprachs?” I had parroted.

“The Hochsprachs,” he’d confirmed with a patience I could have never matched. “Your wife’s family should be able to help sort his affairs.”

“Oh.” I stood there.

Urmacht looked back into the house again, before stepping forward and tapping at my shoulder, directing me off the porch. “You want to ride in my truck? I’ll drop you off and then drive into town.”

“Okay.” 

In retrospect, I was a huge burden. Urmacht owed me nothing; he had no reason to drive me to the Hochsprachs. He did, though. He called the doctor. He helped me drag my father’s body out of the cellar I tossed it down. And he didn’t say anything untoward once. I don’t think I would have helped, had I been in his position. Urmacht is a better man than I’ll ever be.

I never repaid him, before I left. What a mess.

That day, I was just hanging on. And the day after that. Days of cliff-clinging. I went through the world in a haze. Nothing really made sense. I didn’t feel much of anything. Maybe I was afraid. I didn’t know what was going to happen next. I hated myself, I suppose. I hated how I couldn’t seem to do anything. I was catatonic. Some pathetic, shambling, half-living thing.

Little and a lot changed, in the coming days. I’d been managing the household with very minimal input from my father for the past few years, after all. However, the ownership of the farm had to be transferred. It didn’t go to me. I was married, so it went to Polly, who was my wife of two years. Polly was in the capital, Bismaché, though, and she wasn’t planning on coming up anytime soon. That meant that the farm would go to her family by proxy.

On paper, things changed. But in practice, not too much. The world remained unchanged. I wasn’t in the right state to really recognize anything. I can’t remember much of what happened. I remember Ichma, Polly’s sister. Her brother, Howie, coming by once or twice and standing in the doorway like a ghost. Pale, gangly-limbed. Thin-lipped and wide-eyed. Maybe he never came. Maybe I made up that part. Actually, I definitely did. Howie was down south. But I still remember it.

Ichma definitely came. Ichma came by a lot. I remember Ichma, clumsily washing dishes in the sink and babbling about homework. She’d rant about her seminar tutor and a girl she had a rivalry with in language class. She’d talk about her favorite songs on the radio for hours and rattle off every top artist and their hits. She loved this boy band from Zuchio; she knew all the lyrics and she didn’t understand a single word. She broke half of my plates in the process of imparting all of this superficial knowledge. Two weeks of shattered porcelain and teenage ramblings. I remember sitting at the table woodenly, day in and day out, listening to her and feeling nothing.

I’ll never be able repay her.

\- - -

“I’m just asking you to _call_ me,” I murmured into the phone receiver, eyes dry and unfocused. “Polly, my dad just _died,_ I can’t--”

“I can’t come up.” Her voice crackled through the line. “Why won’t you stay with my mom?”

“Polly...”

“Ichma’s coming over, right?”

I swallowed, tongue swollen and dry like a papery chrysalis. “Yes.” I didn’t want to see Ichma, though. She was in the throes of puberty and had begun an earnest obsession with foreign celebrities. She always seemed to be prattling on about nothing.

“Ichma’ll be good, then,” she said. “Just talk to Ichma. She’ll keep you company. And you should really start writing again. That would probably help.”

“I am writing. Kind of.”

“Well, write more. I dunno. We could get it published in the next cycle if you’re quick enough.”

“Do you even hear yourself?”

“There’s nothing I can do, okay? I’m stuck here. I’m dealing with something really big. Believe me, it’s not... I mean. Look, I want to be there, but I can’t. I know I sound insensitive, but I’m really busy. I don’t want to be, I swear. You just have to trust me.”

“Polly.” I stared outside the phone booth. Keffi Chenmann stood on the sidewalk, corralling her two children. A boy and a girl. She was looking at me. Our eyes met. I tore mine away.

“Waldi, I _can’t,_ okay? I can’t.” The phone crinkled. “What would, like. Waldi, what would you even want me to do, if I came up? I can’t do anything for you.”

“I don’t need you to _do_ anything.” I pressed the phone against my face, feeling desperate and stupid.

“I don’t get you at all.”

“Polly, it’s the least you can do, considering!”

“Why do you act like I fucking...masterminded everything terrible in your life? Huh? It’s not my fault! It’s... --You never fucking call me unless you need something, you know that? I’m dealing with some busy shit, right now; I couldn’t even come up if I wanted.”

“Do you even _hear_ yourself? My dad just died!”

“I know, look, I know, but I can’t fix that! I wish I could, okay? I wish I could.”

“I know you can’t.” I rubbed my face. I hadn’t shaved or bathed in half a week. I felt exactly like the shit I embodied. Every month that had passed since our wedding, Polly seemed to understand me less and less. The depth of our separation baffled me. I didn’t choose this situation, after all. I tried, didn’t I? I did everything Nene Hochsprach told me to to do. I was quiet, dutiful, unassuming. I was everything I was required to be, wasn’t I? But here I was, standing in a phone booth, discussing the logistics of my wife refusing to visit me after the death of my father. I tried to be an accommodating husband, but it was easy to lose myself. It was entirely too easy, now. I felt untethered, terrified, numb. “I don’t know what to do, though, Polly.”

“Have you had the funeral, yet?”

“No, he’s sitting at the mortician’s.”

“Mm.”

“Your mom said she’d pay for the service, if that’s okay.”

“Sure. That’s nice of her.”

“Yeah. I’ve got to write a eulogy, but I think I’ll ask someone else to deliver it. I don’t like talking in front of people. Maybe Effler or Urmacht will do it.”

“You don’t need to write a eulogy.”

“Of course I do,” I said, frowning. “We’ve got to put him to rest.”

“You afraid he’ll haunt you?”

“Deathly.”

Polly was silent.

I opened my mouth, but there wasn’t much else to add.

She breathed a long stream of air against the receiver. “Honestly, Wally, I don’t understand why you’re bothering. He was a shitbag.”

I hung up.

\- - -

“Then there’s The New Wave.” Ichma took a plate from the cabinet. She dropped it onto the counter with a crass clatter. “They’re from Zuchio, but they’ve got a new song in Argrean Standard. It’s good! It’s, um. Like, the chorus is about loving yourself and stuff. I think the bassist is really cute.”

I stared at her thin hands as they twisted the faucet. She was trying to wash clean plates. I didn’t stop her. We got running water when I was fifteen. Before that, we had to fill a bucket from the well and draw the water from a barrel. The barrel still sat on our roof. The roof. Now the water was municipal. Ichma could use as much as she wanted, playing house.

“Something like, ‘You’re not too fat or too skinny, you’re just you,’ something like that. My Standard is kinda garbage, haha. I think I can speak it pretty good, but I suck at translating. Well, you probably know that, since you got Polly. She speaks everything.”

“You’re fine,” I mumbled half-heartedly, not really conscious of my own lips.

“Oh! But I did get full marks, this year, in Villichian,” she said, puffing herself up. “I got the top grade, even above Margarette. She’s such a know-it-all, just because her great-grandma is from Villich or whatever, but I still scored higher than her. Maybe I could end up working for the state department, if I get good enough at it. I dunno. I’m not super into it, but I don’t hate language. That’s sort of Polly’s place, right? I don’t know why she didn’t work for the state. I think there’s a lot more money, there. Hey, Wally, do you speak any Villichian?”

“No.”

“None?”

“Only a few words.”

She hummed. “There are some really good boy bands from Villich. That’s how I got into it. Villichian just sounds way better than Kolnoskan. What do you think? It’s smoother. Way better for music.” She spat out a few wobbling bars of what I had to presume was a hook to some song. “Well, I guess you’d like Kolnoskan, since you write stories, right? All your stories are in Kukisch, so I guess you’d write them in another language if you liked that language better.”

I grunted.

“Hey, Wally?”

“What.”

“You think you’ll ever go to Bismaché?”

“The capital?”

“What other Bismaché?”

I shrugged. It was hardly a shrug. My bones shifted slightly, though, enough to be seen. Ichma looked at me with an open, flat expression.

“Polly’s there,” she said.

“I’m aware.”

She turned back to the sink, fiddling with the knobs. She was trying to get hot water. We didn’t have hot water. She was going to wait for a while. “Maybe you should move in with her.”

I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t really worth responding. Ichma was young and blunt and she didn’t understand just how complicated things were between Polly and me. In some ways, I appreciated how she was. No one else would suggest something so stupid to me. It was refreshing. On the other hand, it was still incredibly stupid and my patience had been strained for a while. I had the emotional intelligence of sentient gravel, at the time, and I was painfully aware of this fact. Saying nothing was my best defense against whatever exciting, awful thing would come out of my mouth, otherwise.

“Everyone is really weird about you guys,” she said, because she was a blissfully oblivious almost-sixteen-year-old. “Mom hasn’t come up to your house _once._ You two don’t really talk, do you?”

“No,” I acknowledged.

She gave an emphatic shrug. “Whatever. I don’t get it. Especially the Bismaché thing. You should just go down there. --You love Polly, right?”

“Of course.”

She turned half-way around, looking at me. I offered her nothing. She turned back and twisted off the faucet. “Anyways. I should bring up my radio and we can listen to some stuff. Maybe whenever Howie comes back to town, we can all listen together.”

“Sure.”

She whistled. “Oh, well I gotta go home. I have _sooo_ much homework. I’ll be up tomorrow, though. Probably. And I’ll let you know as soon as I know about Howie.”

“Okay.” I stared at the ground.

The door swung open and shut. It didn’t latch.

The silence stretched, thin and snarling, looping around my limbs like wolf’s jaws. The sink dribbled loose water, interrupting the placidity. I felt totally numb. It was getting dark. I thought about the Hochsprachs’ mother, imperious and expectant. I tried, didn’t I? I tried to be a good son-in-law. I tried at everything. I swore, I did. I really did. I promised.

It didn’t feel like I tried, though.

It felt like I was just existing.

The sink drooled. The setting sun peered into the front windows, suspicious and appraising. The dirt outside was an alien hue, the color of human skin. I imagined that we lived atop a heaving, angry beast, waiting for the right moment to finally shake my freeloading form off. I had no value to offer, after all. Absolutely nothing. I was a future feast for maggots. Nothing more. My father’s body, sitting in the mortician’s office. The world was static and immutable, ugly and off-color. Sitting in this kitchen, I had never felt more inert.

I got up. I started to pick the broken pieces of plate out of the sink.

\- - -

Lying on my bed, I stared at the ceiling stain. It had been there since I was born. As far as I could tell, we had the same birth date. As such, we were inextricably linked. I had always held it in high regard, because I recognized that stains were quite powerful omens. Mystics could divine the future in tea leaves, after all. Stains were simply an extension of this concept.

I had seen a thousand visions in it, by this point. Stains were like that. They were sticky omens, eternal prophecies. Not once could I have predicted how difficult this whole situation had felt. I’d seen nothing of that.

Omens kept a lot from me, in retrospect. They never told me about Polly, either.

My ceiling stain had told me that my father would die in this house, though. I always knew, yet I still wasn’t prepared. The fault rested with me, in that case. I should have been better prepared. I supposed, after the marriage, I had been cracked through my core. Emotions had been somewhat difficult to manage, over the past two years.

I felt a keening hollowness inside, like the wind hissing through frail tree branches at dusk. A boundless emptiness, insatiable and inutile. I longed for someone to be near me and care for me. It was an immature longing, certainly, but I felt it deeply, soaking into my marrow like water through loam.

Ichma had once commented that being married meant being wanted. I wondered if this was true. Polly had left so soon after the marriage and she hadn’t come home once, since. Had it even been a week, that we occupied this awkward space together? She left me alone in it, offering excuses about university and internships and friends. All very reasonable excuses, of course. Bismaché evidently trumped me in Polly’s list of priorities. Polly lived down south, with universities and coffee shops and friends, while I sat idly in my father’s house. Ichma’s errant comments felt disgustingly ignorant, when considered beside my reality. It was difficult to feel wanted. I felt more like a leper.

I’d consumed so many books, in my time alone. Every How-To from the library, borrowed and borrowed again. Books on holistic self-improvement and best marital practices. All the books I’d avoided like virulent decay during my teen years, I read them all after Polly left. I knew what I was supposed to do, then. It was all so clear, written on paper. Yet she still didn’t come home. She still didn’t want me. She wouldn’t even come home now, when I presumably needed her support. I just didn’t understand.

_Would you even want her here?_

Yes. It was an easy, obvious answer. Despite everything, I would have preferred if Polly were here. I knew, intellectually, that it wouldn’t be like the books at all, if she came here. No smiles or meals or promenades. I was in state to do anything the proper way, anyways, even if Polly were to somehow come and behave herself in a fashion that made any rational sense.

But emotionally, empty and irrational as I was, I could envision her sitting on the edge of my bed. Polly always had a strange way of quirking her lips, when she wanted to appear reassuring. It used to make me feel warm and loose, like nothing could hurt me. What would she say to me, if she were here?

Lots of things, probably. I’m sure we’d fight. We always seemed to be fighting on the phone, lately. Our conversations before my father’s death were verbal dust, dry and lifeless. Hollow platitudes, scripted lines I knew I was supposed to say as a husband to an absent wife. Now, though, we just fought. I didn’t want that. We would certainly fight, if Polly were to come up.

In my imagination, though, we didn’t have to fight. That was the seduction of fiction. Impossibilities and improbabilities found their rightful places as lording kings.

In my imagination, Polly was as beautiful as the last day that she was my best friend. She quirked her lips, and she said something plain and careful. _I forgot how much the weather sucks up here,_ or something to that affect. I would retort that the weather was fine here, just a bit arid. It would be a simple conversation. It would be windy outside, air scraping against my crooked window. It would be daytime, so our reflections would be invisible in the glass.

Polly would tuck her hair behind her ear, looking out that window with no fear. She wasn’t burdened by the things I had seen.

 _I wish my dad wasn’t dead,_ I could say in my imagination. All the improper, heinous complaints I kept locked behind my upper palate. _I don’t want to go to the funeral._

 _Oh, Waldi, baby, we don’t have to go,_ she could say. Impossible things. Even if she had wanted to stay in Kolnosk, I doubted she could. Polly was a worldly person, now.

I wondered what it would feel like, to have Polly lie down on my bed, breath puffing against my neck. I wondered what it would feel like to entangle our fingers shyly, her palm warm and assertive against my skin. _Anything you want, Polly,_ I could say, with no fear. I would have no reason to be afraid. We could always want the same things.

I wanted someone to touch me. Anyone, at this point. I would really take anyone. I had hardly experienced any meaningful form of human touch in nineteen years. My father was dead. I felt so hollow, so alien and untouchable. I felt detached from the human race.

Polly was the closest person in my life, even now. And how well did I know her, knowing what I knew now? I couldn’t explain any of her words or actions. I felt distinctly unsafe around her, around anyone in her family. I knew it was wrong. I felt used, though. I felt confused. I certainly didn’t feel wanted. I _wanted_ to feel wanted. I wanted to feel like someone wanted me, like I existed to someone, for once. I had always wanted to feel that way. My whole life.

She never told me. And then it happened. And then she left. It was conflicting. I was conflicted.

Polly didn’t want me. No one wanted me. It was the same story. I was errant flesh, borne by a dying body. I so desperately longed for connection--just like all the books I had read, all the books where monsters’ curses were broken by kisses or hermits found love or knights laid down their swords and pressed their faces into the dirt for their ladies. I was the monster, the hermit, the knight, but I was also a real person and none of those things. I was an unremarkable, pathetic boy. No wonder Polly had left so quickly. Her aunt was right. I was nothing but a liability.

Still, I wondered why she chose me. I wondered why she married me.

The ceiling stain suggested a deep connection. Stains, by their nature, were difficult to remove. Polly and I were together for life, for better or worse. Yet we didn’t feel together at all. It was strange, to think about how much closer we were before everything.

In some sense, she had to have wanted me at some point, hadn’t she? I must have been blind to certain aspects of our situation. I could only divine hints from a ceiling stain. I often found it difficult to understand things. I felt stupid, frequently. Polly always told me I was smart, though. The real Polly. My fictional Polly never brought up anything like that. I wasn’t sure who was preferable.

The Polly in my imagination never left me. The Polly in my imagination ran her fingers through my hair, scratching at the back of my scalp idly as she read through a tattered copy of _Don’t Knock Twice and Other Stories_. Domestic and simple. I could press my face into her hip, soft and warm, I could close my eyes, and

Five-hundred Kolchens and twenty goats.

I rolled over, staring at my crooked window with dry, stinging eyes. The wind wailed.

\- - -

“I didn’t call you over just to talk about finances,” Nene Hochsprach said over breakfast. “You mostly take care of yourself. This is about Polly.”

I watched her disinterestedly crack an egg with her fork. “Alright.”

“You’re probably aware, but she’s finished her post-grad.”

“I see.” I was not aware.

She set her spoon down, picking up the egg. The yolk slopped against the top of the shell. “She’s not coming back. She has a full-time position with the Foreign Language Institute at Bismaché University.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that.

She looked up. “We expect you’ll be staying with her.”

Ah.

I swallowed, face neutral. “Of course.”

“I’ll consolidate your assets.”

I didn’t know that I had any assets. I didn’t even know what assets were. I was nineteen.

“We’ll make arrangements in a few days.” She slurped up the yolky innards. “You’ll take a train from Rigàna to Bismaché and Polly will pick you up, whatever day she’s free.”

“A few days,” I echoed, startled.

Nene Hochsprach shot me a sharp look.

“Yes,” I tried again, voice soft. Disrespecting Nene Hochsprach, I was well aware, had dire consequences. I didn’t want to be the sort of person who disrespected his mother-in-law, anyways. “Of course. Thank you for telling me.”

She turned back to her breakfast. “That’s all.”

“Okay. Thank you. Can I get you a drink, Hochsprach?” I asked. This was my usual script. It was all I was good for. Fetching water and hovering at the elbows of disinterested women. It was the safest place I knew. I supposed I’d be doing it every day, in Bismaché. Looking after Polly and her home.

“I forgot to tell you at the service, but I wanted to thank you for writing an appropriate eulogy. It was very tasteful.”

There was nothing tasteful about it. She was referring to the format of my eulogy--it was very traditional, in the most rigid sense. It was a terribly artificial eulogy, but I suppose it was only artificial in privacy. It sounded quite nice, when Urmacht read it. I’d have preferred if someone else could have read it, most specifically Howie. Howie had a great cadence. I missed him. I missed a lot of things. I was totally numb with it.

“Ah, thank you very kindly.”

She shook her head. “Ichma’s quite fond of you.”

I stared at the table blankly. My insides buzzed with an illness that I couldn’t name. “Yes. Thank you. May I be excused?”

“You haven’t eaten.”

“Ah, I’m afraid I’ve been a bit sick lately.”

She shrugged. “Do what you will.”

I didn’t like that, even though I didn’t really know what she meant by it. Her words didn’t stop me from getting up, however. I was within my bounds to get up and leave; I wasn’t being impolite. “Thank you, Hochsprach.”

“And Waldi.”

I froze.

“I expect you’ll be on good behavior with Polly.”

“Of course, Hochsprach,” I said.

“She cares a lot about you.”

I opened my mouth, but words failed me. Or maybe too many words would have tumbled out, if I had let them. I nodded, smiling politely, and I quickly slipped through the door, my heart pounding to a ragged, troubled beat.

\- - -

“You hardly talk, you know?”

“I talk enough.” I stared at the goat feed with a concentrated interest.

Ichma’s face eclipsed part of my view, an amused look in her unfocused face. “Polly only likes boring boys. You’re such a textbook good boy.”

The muscles around my upper lip almost spasmed. I preemptively tamped them down. “I was the _only_ boy,” I pointed out, unable to help myself in that respect. I picked up the bucket, hobbling over to the pen. “She wasn’t exactly spoiled for choice.”

“She could have waited, like Howie did. I don’t see Howie walking around with Olgine Weschmaken from junior school on his arm.”

I shrugged, upturning the bucket. “I guess Howie didn’t like Olgine. I don’t even know Olgine.”

“I think she’s ugly,” Ichma said casually, walking after me. Women got to say all sorts of insensitive, thoughtless things. “Anyways. I think Polly just made up her mind about you early.”

She certainly did, didn’t she? I was eight. I was eight, with no idea. I’d barely been forty-five pounds, a skeletal imp with a stutter and weak knees. What a catch. Picture-perfect Kolnoskan boy.

“Polly has low standards,” I spat. “Okay? We get it. I know.”

Her mouth flattened. “I didn’t say that. Where did I say that, genius? Don’t put words in my mouth, jerk.”

“Sorry.”

She rested her elbows on the fence, leaning over to settle her face on her hands. “Just, like, I feel like you’ve been around my whole life. Like, there’s Polly, and then there’s you right behind her. You two’ve always been together.”

“Mm.”

“I guess it makes sense you’d end up together, right? I wish I had a guy I knew I’d end up with. All the boys in my classes are really lame. I think I told you about Jan, how he’s always sweating? It’s awful.”

The fence was an old fence, rickety and rotting in some posts. The whole house was old. I realized that I didn’t know the history of my own house at all. I had no idea how old it was, precisely, or who built it. Maybe my father, I supposed. I couldn’t imagine him doing anything of considerable effort, though. I had always assumed he was a different man before I was born, but I couldn’t be sure. Even with that assumption, it was difficult to picture.

“You’re still really sad huh?” Ichma’s voice was muffled by the meat of her hands.

I blinked. “Uh. Sure.”

“Well, I was really sad when my dad died,” she said. “I was, like...seven? Seven, I think. I cried for days. I’m still sad about it. My dad was a great guy.”

“He was,” I agreed. I had only rarely spoken to her father. He was quiet. Deferential. Dutiful. He was a lot like Howie, I thought. The kind of man I desperately wanted to be but couldn’t, due to some invisible, indeterminate flaw.

“I guess that stuff’s always hard. I dunno.” She stood up, drumming her hands on the fence. I watched her pale fingers rattle against the wood.

Never in my life had I actively reached out and touched another human person. My body buzzed with this awareness, cold and isolated. It haunted me lately, more of a ghost than my father’s memory. I felt so removed from everyone by a distance that stretched its fingers across a whole country, down rail lines and past mountain peaks.

For a wild moment, I wondered if I could find absolution through human touch. I wondered if the foreign curvature of a joint could free me from the prison of my own strained skin. I wondered if humans were tied together by invisible umbilical cords, like fairy rings, all feeding off the same bloated, overburdened blood source. Maybe we were all secretly one single entity, lumbering across the tired earth, ravenous and thoughtless. I wondered if there was a way to take without devouring.

I reached out, hand ghosting past her elbow.

Ichma jumped, twisting around.

“I’m lonely,” I confessed.

She gave me a stern look. “Be a man,” she said. “You should know better than to touch a girl who isn’t your wife. And I’m just a teenager, you know. You’re not some pervert, are you?”

“It’s not like that,” I started, my fingers skittering back to my torso like the legs of a hyperventilating spider.

She just shook her head, frowning. “You’ve always been weird.”

“Weird,” I echoed emptily. The faint texture of her arm spluttered in the back of my brain. And then the awareness died.

Human skin was just human skin, anyways. An overgrown organ. And I was indeed a parasite in my appetites.

“I never had a mother,” I said, as though that were some excuse. It wasn’t. It didn’t mean anything. It was a feeble attempt at emotional manipulation.

“Never?”

I shook my head. “She died.”

“Wow, so you’re an only child for real, huh?”

“Um, yes.”

Ichma hooted at that. Her apparent apathy grounded me and ripped me asunder, all at once. I felt like a strange, shivering animal, halfway out of my body.

“I’m just. Lonely.” As if repeating it would improve anything.

“I’m sixteen,” she said imperiously, frowning.

“It’s not like that!” I hissed, feeling my face heat up with disgust and shame and some unknown, unpleasant emotion.

Ichma shook her head, eyes to the sky, as she slid her backpack onto her shoulders.

“We’re family.” I searched for the right words and tried desperately not to feel like a fraud.

Ichma stared at me.

“You’re my sister,” I said, but we both knew that wasn’t true. Ichma wasn’t my sister. I shouldn’t have said it. That was a painful thing to say. I shouldn’t have ever said it. I felt like I was going crazy. I didn’t want to go to Bismaché. I didn’t want to sit and rust in my inherited hovel, either. My legs thrummed with adrenaline, ankles twitching like rigor mortis in a dead rat. I had too many thoughts in my head, and they were making me quite stupid.

Anyone over the age of seventeen would have told me to go to sleep. I clearly needed to go to sleep. Ichma just shook her head, mouth slightly open, before murmuring wondrously, “Wow, you are _super_ weird.”

I took it upon myself to be the adult. I went inside.

\- - -

“You don’t sound too happy about it.”

“I don’t care,” I said blankly. “It’s whatever you want.”

Polly sighed, static crackling over the line. “Well, it’s a lot easier to make decisions involving you if you actually offer an opinion.”

“It doesn’t really matter. The decision’s been made.”

She was quiet. “Right,” she said, after a moment. “I guess so.”

“You didn’t tell me you were in post-grad,” I blurted.

“I didn’t? I guess it never came up. Sorry.”

“Oh.” Her dispassionate response cowed me. I fiddled with the telephone cord. “Um. Congrats on finishing.”

“Thanks.”

I pulled my face away from the receiver to sigh, eyes drooping closed. I was using one of the indoor public phones because it was more private, but I could still feel the postmaster’s eyes on me. She had known my father. I wondered if she had hated him, like everyone else seemed to have hated him.

“So, uh. I’ve got a room for you in my apartment.”

“A room,” I echoed.

“Yeah. You know, where you can put your stuff and write. It has a bed.”

“My room?”

“Yeah. Your own room. That’s what you want, right?”

“Yes,” I answered immediately. “I mean. If that’s what you’ve decided. I’m fine with that arrangement.”

She made an unidentifiable noise. “It’s no problem.”

“Okay. Great.”

“Waldi.” She paused, searching for her words. “Are you okay with this?”

I contained a bark, my throat choking on the sound.

She plowed over my silence, voice thick with a tight emotion. “I know this whole thing hasn’t been great. It’s been terrible. It’s fucking awful. I’m so sorry. So I get it. But maybe we can just live as roommates or something, you know, as friends. The city’s at least got stuff to do, so--”

“We aren’t friends.”

She swallowed. The line was heavy with static.

I didn’t feel bad. We _weren’t_ friends. We hadn’t been friends for a while, now. “I’ll see you in a few days,” I said. “Thank you for making a room for me. I really appreciate it.”

“Okay.” Her voice was small.

I didn’t feel bad. I really didn’t. My eyes slid over to the postmaster sitting idly at her desk. I was intimately aware of the glass separating us. It was a thin pane. My fingers reached out, making sure it was closed as tight as it would go. “Goodbye, Polly. Have a nice day.”

“Yeah. You too. Bye.”

Hanging up was an easy motion.

\- - -

“I’m going for a walk,” I announced, picking up my backpack.

Ichma stared with pursed lips. “A walk,” she echoed.

“A long walk.” I opened the door, foot heavy against the porch boards.

She wrenched the handle from my grasp, face tight. “How long? How long’s a walk that needs a packed bag?”

“A really long one.”

“Fuck you, you know? Seriously. Fuck you. You’re not going _anywhere.”_

I turned to look at her. Her face was pinched, lips quivering. I was taller than Ichma. She was a very small girl. Thin and short, with shoulder-length, dark hair and a round, soft face. I adjusted my pack, and I thought about how she looked like a child to me. I clenched my fists, feeling a sure, snapping strength in my forearms.

“Goodbye, Ichma,” I said, tugging on the outside doorknob until it slipped out from under her palm.

She shook her head, snarling. “Why are you like this? Why do you gotta be like this? You can’t just _leave._ It’s not that simple.”

“I’m just going for a walk.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying. I really am going for a walk.”

“Yeah? Where?”

I offered her a paltry smile and I gently closed the door.

\- - -

My father used to take me with him when he went into town, down the rocky back roads. I would rattle in the back of the truck, coughing up emissions with the goats. Our sounds would meld into a singular bleat for respite. But I never hated going down the mountain with him. I loved going into Kuk because there were other people there, along with all of their trappings: neighboring houses and convenience stores and smoothed roads.

My father had known everyone in town and everyone had known him. Kuk used to seem big to me. It constituted the entirety of my world. Of course, I was intellectually aware that there was more to life than what I saw, but it was of little concern to me. What existed that could possibly thrill me? I had everything I could ever want, here in Kuk. Cities were just an accumulation of buildings. I lived in a building, so that was nothing special. Fast-moving cars and paved roads and deserts and jungles. It all meant nothing to me. I had never seen the ocean and I didn’t care to make a trip. I had seen water before.

My father used to take me almost everywhere he took the goats. I became intimately familiar with the smell of goat fur, matted with dirt and shit. It was just the two of us in his truck, him in the driver’s seat, me in the back. And I felt safe, in the back, surrounded by stinking goats. I felt wanted, and I felt the peace that came with being wanted. Even if it only lasted on the trips to the markets, and never on the lonely returns, only the wind whistling through the truck bed with me.

The road quivered under my scrutiny, dirt on dirt.

My feet were tired. They ached something quite awful.

There was a tavern on the edge of Losch county that my father had taken me through when I was seven. We were shipping twenty goats to a state fair, for sale. We met the owner and my father acted like he knew her, but he never explained it to me. My father never explained anything.

The outside looked the same, only uglier. The paint was more chipped, more faded, but the sign had a fresh coat. Wasn’t that all that mattered? I supposed so. It was called ‘priorities.’

I felt like a distant ghost, climbing the steps to the door. I was old enough to go in without my father, but I didn’t feel like I was. I felt ageless.

There were six people, inside. They all turned to look at me. In order: the bartender, the waitress, three men at a table, two men at another table, and one man at the bar. The scene of a play. The lines of a eulogy, well-worn and type-written. I stood there, in the doorway, looking back at them. They all turned away, one by one, until it was only me and the bartender. Enter stage left. Proceed with the first Eusche-form stanza.

I walked up to the bar and stood next to the stool. I felt a little nauseous. The bartender swiveled, facing me.

“Do you know Osch Hoffenthal?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “Why?”

I drew lines in the dust of the bar. “He’s dead.”

“Oh. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Do you have water?”

“Yeah.”

“Does that cost anything?”

I watched her eyes trail from my face to the crown of my head and down to my waist. “Are you okay?” she asked, instead.

“No.”

“I’ll get you a water.”

“Thanks.”

As she turned away, the man at the bar sidled closer to me, moving stools. He wasn’t subtle. He wasn’t trying to be. I watched him. He settled his elbows on the bar and examined me with an open face. “You look like death. How long you been traveling?”

“Three days.”

“Straight?”

“Yes.”

“Damn, son. Why?”

“I just had to get out of the house.”

“Yeah, for three days. Sure. What kind of stress does a kid like you got in life?”

I shrugged. “I’m in mourning, I guess.”

He studied me, eyes narrowing. I didn’t move. I was too tired to move, for now. The bar smelled like alcohol and old, canned sardines. I sagged and swayed.

“You’re a little young to believe in all that old pagan bullshit.” He sniffled into his scarf.

“Yeah.”

“That’s what you’re doing, right? My great-aunt did that. She walked out the front door after her husband died and she never came back. You plan on coming back?”

“I’m not planning anything.”

“How far are you gonna go?”

“I don’t know. Until I stop, I guess.”

“A bunch of bull crap,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“You think they got the right answers? I don’t. They didn’t even have working toilets, back then. What could they know?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who died?”

“My father.”

He hacked into his sleeve, throat wet and wheezing. “That’s rough, buddy.”

“Yeah, it’s rough.” The bartender came with water. I picked it up. It was warm. I drank it. Bitter, like piss sliding down my throat. I needed to piss, but I wouldn’t. I was going to hold it. “We lived in a house on a mountain,” I said, unbidden. “We would sit on the porch, and watch the sun set. And everything that was brown turned orange.”

He didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say, besides what I had said. That was all there was.

“I don’t even think I liked him,” I confessed.

He grunted. “You need money? I got five Kolchens on me.”

“Sure.”

“Who knows, maybe it’ll give me good karma. You’re young, you know that?”

“I know that.”

He fished out his wallet and handed me a crumpled bill. “I try to be a good person,” he said.

“I can tell.”

“Listen. Don’t waste your life crying over dead people. It’s best not to dwell on those things, you know? I mean, you obviously don’t, but think about it, if you would, yeah?”

“I’ll definitely think about it. Thank you.”

“Sure,” he said, frowning nervously. His eyes traced the shell of my ear as I turned away from him. “Sure,” he said again. “Anytime. Sure.”

\- - -

I hadn’t cried once. I wasn’t really sure if I was even sad. Looking back on it, I think I was just overwhelmed. Everything was changing all at once. People I had known for so long had all went and changed, as well. I had nothing to hold onto with any measure of surety.

All I had was expectations. That’s how I felt. People who told me how to act and where to place my limbs, like some dangling string-doll. Scripts I’d memorized and routinely vomited into the open air. It should have been easy to let go, to let people handle me however they wished, but it wasn’t. I didn’t know why it wasn’t easy.

I understood how I was supposed to feel and act and what to say and where to go, but something in me rioted at this, all the same. Something in me treated all of this like a dose of ipecac straight to my soul.

I supposed I still had the dirt under my feet. The dirt didn’t care who or what I was at all. Nothing that lived in the dirt judged me. It was only a cold comfort, though. It didn’t hold my hands or speak to me. It was only an abstract awareness.

I was so tired.

I thought I knew where I was, in a general geographic sense, but I had no certainty. I’d never been past the edge of Losch. All the roads looked the same, here. They stretched on, forever, between jagged mountain peaks. It was a morbid kind of infinity. I began to feel that all places were the same all over the world, even in places I’d never been. Browns and blues, patches of green, the wind and the silence.

The dirt here was dry, but the air was wet with sea salt. I couldn’t see the ocean, but I could sense it on the wind. It carried the scent from both distant and close shores. I knew all paths eventually led to the ocean. I had never seen the ocean. My father had. He never told me about it, but I knew he had. He was born on the coast, between greater northern Kolnosk and the Strait of Jotin. I wondered if my grandfather was a fisherman. I wondered if my father ever missed my grandfather. I wondered if he cried when he died.

My father died. I blinked. It was a curious thing. I felt like I was finally becoming aware of this fact.

I hadn’t cried once, but now I ached inside, like my whole body was crying. I sweat, with the exertion of walking under the sun with no shade save for sparse gnarled trees, and I told myself that maybe my skin was weeping. Its salt stung my eyes, but still no tears dropped. 

Was I sad? No. Well, I wasn’t sure. I was tired. I knew that much.

The air got more sour with every step. I knew it was the ocean. This is why I came here, I realized. It all made sense in some ancient, inexpressible way. Ah, of course. I came to see the ocean. I had never seen the ocean. All land life came from the ocean and my grandfather was a fisherman. I had a birthright to see the ocean.

It was very strange, wasn’t it? I instinctively knew what the ocean smelled like. I wondered if it was a knowledge passed down through inheritance. Was that possible? It seemed possible to me. It seemed very possible. I learned in school that all humans came from the same lineage, if we went back far enough. We were all related, through one convoluted way or another. All love was familial.

I blinked, vision blurry. My tongue was dry and papery, like a cat tongue. I had always wanted a cat, when I was a kid. Polly told me that they were mean, or her mother told her that, at least. That should have dissuaded me, and it did, but I still felt that want. I didn’t understand why I would want something that shouldn’t have been wanted.

I missed Polly, after a fashion. But only in specific ways. I missed her hair but I didn’t miss her lips. Her hair never said any cruelty to me.

I thought about the Polly who used to be my best friend. That Polly was dead, and I missed her terribly. Alone for two years, an artificial widower, holding artificial conversations with a girl who never existed. A girl who owned me with compassion and always prioritized me. Living alone, I could pretend I was in possession of a simple, ideal love, borne from choice.

There was no choice, in reality. The real Polly expected me to uproot myself and ship myself over to her. To the capital city, days south, surrounded by rolling mountains, their appearance something of which I had no concept.

But I assumed that they looked the same as here.

\- - -

The town was called Alchmenk. I’d never heard of it. I only knew because it had a sign in Kolnoskan and Standard Argrean. It said the same thing on both. It was spelled out phonetically in Standard. The phonetic spelling was still wrong.

It wasn’t nearly as big as Rigàna, but I had only been to Rigàna once, to see Polly’s awful aunt. This was the biggest town I had ever set proper foot in. There were sidewalks and shops. Newer cars and paved roads. People who seemed to live fifty years in the future. It was thrilling in its own way, seeing so much human traffic all at once. Foreign people were always thrilling, I supposed, even superficial strangers.

I didn’t care about any of that, though. Alchmenk had a mountain on the other side of it, and on the other side of that mountain lay the ocean.

It’d been five days. The man’s crumpled Kolchen lay curled in my pocket, unused. Now was probably the time to waste it, if I was going to waste it anywhere. I still had water and stale breadcrumbs in my backpack, enough for another day. All I needed was one day. 

“Excuse me,” I said to a man reading a newspaper.

He grunted. Urbanites were always rude. I knew this from books.

“Excuse me,” I tried again. “Do you know how I can reach the mountain?”

He looked up. I was a monumental waste of his time. “Just follow the road down past Brigtol’s.”

“Where is Brigtol’s?”

He folded the paper. “Where’re you from?”

“Kuk.”

His face froze.

“I’ve been walking for five days,” I said. “My father is dead. How do I get to Brigtol’s?”

“Why would you tell me something like that?” he said, lowly.

I shrugged. “I assume you want me to leave.”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” he said. “Nothing personal, kid. You’re just rotten luck.”

“I understand,” I said. And I did. I understood.

“Brigtol’s is down this street. Turn right at the sign for Saint Golig Street. Then go to the end of that. Brigtol’s is at the end. There’s a fence. Just climb over it. There’s the mountain. I don’t know what you’re doing on that mountain and I don’t want to know. It’s not my fault, whatever you do.”

“It’s not your fault,” I agreed. “Thank you.”

He just shook his head, turning away.

Even in a modern world like this, people were superstitious, I realized. Well, those superstitions held weight. Monsters still lived in the woods, no matter how differently people dressed themselves. Omens insinuated themselves on the breeze and in the rattling of tree limbs, every day. The world stayed the same even when everyone else changed.

Brigtol’s was a hardware store, I found. And there was a fence, with a lock looped over the metal gate in the center. It was easy to hop. No one paid me any mind. I assumed others likely had done the same for a variety of reasons. Lots of people walked up mountains.

The ocean was so close. It clogged my throat with salt and marine corpses.

Stumbling, scratching my hands along jagged rocks on the trail, I began my ascent.

\- - -

I didn’t get far.

There was a creature stalking me, panting with hungry breath. It was wide-mouthed, wide-eyed, a creature rarely seen in the daytime. I could sense it without turning around. I knew better than to look at a monster. I would see the ocean and then it could do whatever it wanted.

But I didn’t get far. Maybe four hundred meters up. One had to move quickly when pursued by a monster, after all, and my shoes were not made for mountain walking. The trail was not well-worn, covered in sheer rocks and frail grass. Apparently people didn’t pursue mountain walking all that often in Alchmenk.

The ground rose to meet me with a passionate leap as I tripped, planting my face in the dirt for a messy kiss. I tasted blood on my lips and rolled onto my back, groaning.

Framed by the sun, the monster stood over me, shoulders heaving. Sweat dripped from her brow. I squinted, breathing through my open mouth, feeling blood trickle down my cheek.

“Ah. Nene Hochsprach,” I noted, cringing against the sunlight. “Um. H-hello.”

“You’re going to Bismaché,” she hissed with tightly managed rage looped around her taut fists. “It’s about time Polly took responsibility.”

I blinked up at her, vision wavering. She really did look like some awful, avenging monster, thin and pale against the sky. Her head swiveled on her neck, long teeth flashing. For a moment, I wondered if she would eat me.

“Get up. We’re driving back to Kuk. Ichma will help you pack your things. You’re leaving this weekend. _Tomorrow.”_

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t need to say anything. I probably wasn’t supposed to say anything.

“Howie’s waiting in the truck. He took time off of work and a night train all the way to Kuk, just to get you. I hope you’re proud of yourself. Get up.”

I weakly clawed at the dirt, dragging up loose soil. Why did Howie come up to Kolnosk, just to grab me? His mother must have told him to do it. For the first time in my life, I was intensely grateful I’d never had a mother.

“Do you even know what you look like, walking all over the countryside like that? Do you know what people would think?”

“They’d think I’m walking to death,” I answered dutifully, taking a deep breath to keep my head from reeling. My shirt rode up against the crushed fabric of my backpack, ribs expanding painfully. “Like they used to, a long time ago. A long, long time ago. Way before me.”

Nene Hochprach scowled, watching me crawl onto my knees and stand up stiffly. Her eyes felt like pinpricks on my skin, sharp and insistent. This was the end of the road for me. It was over.

But I had a job to do.

“Can I...” I licked my lips, parched and aching with fear. “Can I please just go up the mountain? I’ll come back.”

“No.”

My vision swam. I blinked quickly, windshield wipers. “Ah, please. Please, please, I--”

Her hand snatched me around the back of my neck, pulling me up and pushing me forward. I could feel her cold fingers like tight braces over my skin, palm against my spine. My nerves creaked with the contact, fluttering with alien impulses. My legs tensed, muscles twitching. My heart chittered in my chest, buzzing with undefined emotions. My face was hot. I was embarrassed. This was a very embarrassing ordeal. I had caused a lot of trouble.

And I had achieved nothing. Absolutely nothing. I didn’t even see the ocean.

If this were one of my stories, the protagonist would have gotten to see the ocean. He would have gotten that much. He would have been disappointed, but at least he would have had that. And he would have had some great epiphany about the benevolent apathy of nature or something like that. But this was reality, feeble and fickle and unfulfilling.

“You’ve had your fun.” Her voice was smooth and tightly controlled. I wondered as to which fun she was referring. I would have loved to have known about it. “But it’s time to grow up. You’re a man, and it’s time you acted like one. While much of the blame rests with your father, I recognize that I have also been too lax with you.”

The sky buzzed above us. The sun was hot and apathetic, its light fizzling against my skin until perspiration drooled down my face.

“You lack proper socialization. It isn’t necessarily your fault,” she continued. “But at some point, you need to rise to your situation. You have embarrassed me greatly.”

I ducked my head, watching my feet kick up loose stones. “I’m sorry.”

“No you aren’t. But someday you’ll look back on this and you will loathe yourself for the great disservice you did to my family.”

I swallowed, throat tight.

“You’re young, so I will forgive you in time. Your father never applied a strict hand to you. I can understand that you don’t recognize consequences. Yet, I admit, I was surprised by this behavior. It didn’t seem like you. You always seemed like you had such a good temperament, but after this display, I have more than doubts.”

I blinked sweat out of my eyes. It stung like little electrical shocks.

“Maybe you just had a psychotic break,” she said. “You always were delicate. That doesn’t excuse it, though.”

Trudging to the base on my wobbling legs, I felt anything but delicate. My body felt sinewy and worn rough, my feet pulsing with old and new blisters. The gate came upon us quicker than I would have expected. It was open.

“I suppose that’s what likely happened. I’ll tell as much to Polly. She’ll keep an eye on you. You’re lucky she’s so conscientious. She’s always been too easy on you. I suppose we all have been.”

We walked through Alchmenk with her hand still on my neck like a leathery collar. It would have been humiliating if I’d had any sense of honor. I didn’t, though. I knew I didn’t deserve honor. I had caused a lot of trouble and I had never done anything for anyone in my life. I was the definition of a burden.

Howie was sitting in the Hochsprachs’ truck, parked by the general store. He was reading a book. I thought that was good. This was so much trouble, but he didn’t seem too bothered. Even if he were bothered, hopefully he’d gotten to read something he liked.

Nene Hochsprach wrenched open the passenger side door and pulled the seat forward. Howie turned to look at us, blinking slowly. I couldn’t meet his eyes. I felt terribly guilty. I felt awfully embarrassed. Howie was everything I wasn’t: a dutiful son, a mature man, a good person.

“Get in.” She shoved me.

I clambered behind the passenger seat, squatting in the small space. Howie didn’t say a word and his mother didn’t, either. He started up the truck. I huffed, reaching up to rub my neck. I felt like I’d just been lassoed and thrown to the ground. My face was still hot. My limbs were burning, tendons snapping like hungry dogs.

Hochsprach’s words echoed in my head. I felt ashamed. I felt terribly embarrassed. I had done something crazy and thoughtless, after all. I was despondent and could feel myself slipping into catatonia. The heat left me, but the sweat didn’t. I deserved that. I deserved to feel my skin tacky and granular with loose salt. I deserved to feel filthy.

What would Polly think, if she saw me like this? The real Polly. It was an errant, masochistic thought. She would tell me I smelled bad. That would be a very Polly thing to do. Then she would ask me if I wanted to take a bath. Also a very Polly thing. Then she would ask me if I needed anything. A very Polly thing. She’d ask me if I was okay. Very Polly. So Polly. She could be sincere and I still wouldn’t trust it. I knew better than trust sincerity at this point, especially from her.

My eyes slid closed, eyelashes sticky. I wondered what her apartment looked like. I had my own room, I supposed. Maybe. She said so, at least. Polly wasn’t prone to lying outright, but omission was another issue entirely. I didn’t trust like that.

I wondered what the bath looked like. I imagined taking a bath. Or a shower. They had to have showers in Bismaché. That would be better. I imagined being clean, pressed dry, attractive and appropriate in a way I had never felt before. Polly would be in the living room and everything would be very simple. Nothing complicated. We would be smooth, easy people. Fictional people.

In my half-dream, she smiled at me. She looked like the girl I grew up with. I reached out to touch her soft face, but my fingers never connected. I had never actively touched another person before, and I could not envision what it felt like. I kept reaching, stretching my arm until it felt ready to snap. She kept smiling.

\- - -

It was a long drive. Not as long as the walk, but that was to be expected. It was still the longest six hours of my life, rattling around behind the passenger seat, my cheek crushed against the truck interior.

Howie looked exactly the same as he did before he left Kolnosk, three years ago. It was disorienting; I’d expected him to seem more grown up. He was engaged, after all, and lived somewhere in the south of Kolnosk. I knew he’d worked in the southern-most state, Sudorta, for a while. But no, Howie looked the same.

It shouldn’t have been as jarring as it was, but my head was in a strange place.

Nene Hochsprach and Howie talked to each other intermittently, only about very casual subjects. They spoke in hushed, calm tones. I could have been ten again, if not for the context and my body. But, I realized as I curled up, even my body wasn’t all that different from when I was ten. I had the same skin and hair and eyes and teeth. I was still me. Just like Howie was still Howie. Maybe we were all the same, even after everything. Just the unchanging world we occupied. Was the world _really_ unchanging? Maybe I had had it all backwards.

I felt numb inside and out, like my muscles and organs were static. Everyone had seemed so different to me, but now I understood. Everyone was the same. Everyone had always been the same. What could have been comforting was only disturbing. I hadn’t learned anything, after all this time. The world kept turning and turning and turning, but our feet were glued to the ground, immovable centerpieces.

I felt distinctly haunted. Everything moved so fast, but I wasn’t prepared for it at all. I thought this was all supposed to be natural, some gift nature bestowed on me as I aged. I was supposed to grow into everything, finally fit in, but I was still the same person I was when I was seventeen. The same person I was when I was fifteen. Ten. Five. One. The world was a whirlwind of school and marriage, rain and snow, day and night. Rotation after rotation. It puzzled me.

The seasons changed, so why didn’t we?

The truck rocked as we hit another bump in the road. It was all poisonous, now. Every memory. I felt robbed of all fond reminiscence. I wasn’t the only one who stayed the same, after all. Other people’s machinations were the same as they had always been. People had always had the same intentions for me, and I was eternally blind to them. I realized, in that moment, that I had never had any true friends. The Polly that was my friend hadn’t died; she had never existed. I felt ill and dizzy, throat thick and hot. Everything was so senseless.

Well. My father changed, I supposed. He was alive, now he was dead. Maybe I didn’t want to be surrounded by metamorphosis, either. Nothing good ever came out of rotting pupae. I felt hollow, thinking about it. I didn’t want change, either. I rejected that, too. I didn’t want change and I didn’t want to stay the same. I was stuck.

It didn’t matter what I wanted or what I did, anyways. I could run away and never return, but it didn’t change anything about my situation. _I_ was my situation. Everyone around me was my situation. And their expectations had never changed. My father had never changed. Nene Hochsprach had never changed. Howie had never changed. I had certainly never changed. Not in this life, anyways.

The photographs in the Hochsprach house were proof of that.

I would be in Bismaché in a matter of days, I remembered, my gut sinking like a stone. _Tomorrow._ The world changed, people stayed the same. This sentiment constituted my new awareness. I was sure everyone would be the same, even there. Polly would be the same. The girl I knew in Kuk, the girl who acted like she cared about me. I hated actors. I hated them. I hated people, too. I hated, in that moment, a lot of things.

Then it fizzled out. I was empty again. I wasn’t unique at all. I had my fate, just like everyone else. My father was dead. I had no prospects. I was married. Many before me had managed and managed well. I was not an island. I had responsibilities; I was nineteen. I was a husband. The word held a lofty weight I had often struggled to properly consider, not matter how many books I read. I hadn’t ever felt like a husband, but it was an adult word that applied to me. I felt like a child playing house. Maybe I was. But if I was, then that was my role. I was what I was: a boy, a man, a husband, a son-in-law. None of that would change, even if I ran away, even if I died. My father didn’t stop being my father, after all.

My mind meandered in this fashion, sashaying from subject to subject, perspective to perspective, all contradictory, each sensible in its respective moment, until my eyes slid closed. The truck rocked me back and forth on the bumpy roads of Kolnosk. Curled in the fetal position behind the seats, struggling to swallow down the raw sensation in my throat, I felt like a baby for the first time in my life.

\- - -

Ichma was waiting outside of my father’s house as Howie parked the truck. We’d stopped by the Hochsprach house to drop their mother off, and then Howie had driven up the mountain, the truck’s engine rumbling in discontent the whole way. I didn’t remember if we talked about anything. Maybe we did; it would be a very Howie move. He was considerate like that. But in my mind’s story, we didn’t speak. In my mind’s story, there was a cinematic silence.

I climbed out of the truck while Howie stayed in the driver’s seat, engine quiet.

“Hello, Ichma,” I said, to get it over with.

“Hi, Waldi,” she responded, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. She stood in front of the door like she owned the place. I supposed she did, in a sense.

I slithered through the doorway and she followed with heavy footsteps. The sink was full of broken plates.

There was already a suitcase in my bedroom. I recognized it as Polly’s.

“Howie brought it up,” Ichma said. “He said he wanted to go down with you, but he’s leaving tonight because he has work tomorrow.”

“Right.” I felt bad. It was distant, though. Exhaustion dulled all emotions.

She sidled past me, shoulders squared. Her bravado slipped a little once she was in the middle of the room, her posture unsure. It was a sparse area, even sparser in the low light. Looking in from the doorway, I felt like I was seeing it for the first time. All I had was a bed, a dresser, and a desk. Economical, I supposed, was a more positive adjective. Maybe not. Economical people were rarely warm people.

Ichma made a beeline for the dresser, unprompted. “You think I showed up everyday because I had no better place to be?” She tore out the drawers. They clattered onto the floor, my pants and underwear flung into disarray like refugees falling out of their rescue boat.

“To be honest,” I said a bit stiffly, “I didn’t think much about it.”

She stared at me, eyes wide with complicated, negative emotions.

I was being outrageously cruel. It was senseless. But it was also the truth. I hadn’t thought about it at all. She had just been here, like a spot of weather. I was a passive animal. I was best when was I was a passive animal, anyways. Nene Hochsprach had no problem with me rotting away in my father’s house, hardly able to lift a fork to my mouth. It was only when I did anything that I caused trouble.

“Thanks for coming over,” I said. It was important to be mindful. Respectful. I had already caused enough damage. “It was very kind of you. I should have listened.”

She snorted, turning her face away. She sounded just like Polly. “Whatever,” she said, after a moment. “You’re stupid.”

“I am,” I readily agreed.

“We were all worried sick, you know? Howie came up, two nights ago. He asked me all about how you’ve been doing. I said you’d been fine before you left! No one really understands you.”

I leaned on my doorframe, unable to offer anything substantial to that.

“Polly was crying on the phone.” She wrinkled her nose. “You’re a bad husband.”

“Yes.” I stood up, walking into the room.

“She said she should have come up.”

“Well, she didn’t,” I said, picking up my clothes. I held my bunched up underwear to my chest like I was cradling a wounded animal.

“She said you make things more difficult than they need to be.”

“She would say that.” I would have felt bitter if I had the energy, if I could care enough. I didn’t, though. I felt nothing.

“She was worried sick.”

“Of course.”

“You always make that face when I talk about her.”

I blinked. “What face?”

She shrugged. “I dunno. A face. Sort of embarrassed, I guess. You always did, even way back. I guess you’re kind of puckered up, now, too, but I can see it in there.”

I tossed my clothes toward the general direction of the suitcase. “Sounds like nonsense.”

 _“You’re_ nonsense.”

I fell backwards onto my bed, listening to the loose springs whine. A groan escaped my lips.

“Why are you so weird?”

“I don’t know,” I mumbled. “I think I was born like this.”

The bed huffed in irritation as it indented again. Ichma muttered something as she settled onto the mattress, bunching up the blanket. I thought about her yelling at me for almost touching her arm. It was an act of disrespect. I had really lost myself, over the past few weeks. Nene Hochsprach was right; this wasn’t like me. Thinking about it, though, I wasn’t really sure what I was really like, to begin with.

We lay on my bed and stared at the speckled, stained ceiling. It was silent, with no warnings to offer. I was born in this room. I supposed I always assumed I would die in this room, too. But the world kept changing, and my expectations were desperately trying to play catch-up.

“I overheard my mom talking to Howie, last night. She says you tried to do Tchähmek,” Ichma said. “She says you were trying to walk yourself to death.”

“I wasn’t trying to do anything.” I thought about walking into the ocean and never coming back. I wasn’t sure if that’s what I was trying to accomplish. I hadn’t planned that far ahead.

“That’s good. I’d rather you die by accident than by killing yourself.”

I hummed.

“Are you still sad about your dad?”

“I don’t know.” I rubbed the comforter between my fingers. “He wasn’t very nice to me,” I said. It felt strange, coming out of my mouth, like tugging on a loose stitch. I felt no conviction behind the words, but they slid out of my body with a strange daring.

“He didn’t seem like a nice man.” Her voice was hushed. We were talking about something forbidden, after all.

“I don’t think he was mean. He just wasn’t much of anything.” What a rotten thing to say about a person, I thought. But when I remembered him, all I could see were his glass eyes as he stared through me from his bed, unmoving and thoroughly disinterested with life. And I was the least interesting thing of all. I knew that.

“He always seemed sick.”

“I think he was.”

We were quiet. It was odd to have Ichma so calm. I was glad she was here. That surprised me. I really was glad.

“You’re my friend,” Ichma murmured, lacing her fingers together over her chest. “You’ve always been my friend, Wally.”

My throat was thick and I didn’t know why. “I don’t want to go.”

“I don’t want you to go, either.”

“I’m scared,” I confessed. “I’ve never left. I think I’ll hate it.”

“You’ll have Polly, at least.”

“...Sure.”

“Maybe I can visit you guys,” she said. “That would be fun.”

“Maybe.”

“I’m your friend,” she said solemnly. “Okay? We’re friends. No matter what happens, we’ll always be friends.”

“Okay,” I muscled out of my throat. It was tight and burning. I took a deep, shaky breath. “Do you promise?” It was so infantile. I was nineteen. I was the adult. Ichma was a Hochsprach. She was better than me. She owed me nothing.

“I promise,” she said, nodding.

Promises didn’t mean anything, my brain screamed. Someone promised to be your friend and next thing you knew, you were betrothed at eight. The world was immeasurably fucked.

“I promise, too,” I said, instead.

It was a very complicated, messy thing. I desperately wanted it to be simple. I wanted everything to be simple. I wanted no secrets. I wished nothing bad had ever happened to anyone. But this, here, lying in bed, was a pocket of uneasy peace. I had to take it for what it was. A bent olive branch.

We fell asleep like that, lying in my bed, the suitcase unpacked.

\- - -

I had a modern Kolnoskan-style formal shirt buttoned up to my Adam’s apple, tight and oppressive. The suitcase dangled in my hand, my wrist aching with the weight. My typewriter composed almost all of it.

My fingers patted at my pocket absently. I still had that crumpled Kolchen, next to my train ticket.

“Send postcards! Or something.” Ichma’s voice was loud.

Nene Hochsprach looked at us with cool composure. I couldn’t read her. I tried not to bother, the hair on the back of my neck hackled. “I’ll do my best,” I answered in a controlled, calm tone. Today, I was the picture-perfect Kolnoskan boy.

Ichma bobbed anxiously as I climbed up the steps to the train car, her hands balled into fists.

“Bye, Ichma,” I said. “I’ll miss you lots.”

“Call me!”

I watched Nene Hochsprach shake her head. “Ah, maybe once I settle in,” I tried. “And thank you so much for everything, Hochsprach.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. “Tell Polly I say hi.”

“And tell her _I_ say hi,” Ichma boomed.

“I will,” I promised. I turned away and reached into my pocket, fiddling with my ticket. It was easy to turn away. That surprised me. It was entirely too easy.

My seat was 26A. Window seat. No one else sat in my row. The train didn’t have many people on it. Just some bedraggled strangers and a disgruntled cop. I supposed it would pick up more passengers as it approached Rigàna. Then I would transfer to a train set for Bismaché.

Ichma made a face when she saw me in the window. I waved, my hand small and unassuming. She returned the gesture in a large motion, elbow swinging. Nene Hochsprach folded her arms over her chest.

The train hooted, gears clicking. It smelled strange.

“Bye,” I said, even though no one could hear me.

“Bye,” I watched Ichma say, even though I couldn’t hear her.

And I watched her slide away from me, along with everything else I had ever known. The old school building and the post office and the neighboring houses. The mountains and the startled deer and the wispy grass. My whole world.

 _This is all there is,_ I confirmed.

And I left.


	4. An Omen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School’s back, so updates will be slower. I always try to stay at least one chapter ahead with editing. All chapters are subject to edits, even after posting. Thanks so much for reading.

Schotek takes conservative sips from her coffee, watching Polly with impassive eyes. Polly returns her stare with poorly concealed rage, her tense shoulders vibrating as she twists her skirt between her fists.

I set her mug on the coffee table and slowly back away.

“I always share good stories with my friends.” Schotek disinterestedly picks at the chair upholstery. “I shared _The Hunter_ with a few people, too.”

“You’re really not doing much to get back in my good graces.”

“Does your husband know you shared _The Hunter_ with me?”

Polly doesn’t move. She looks ahead coldly.

“Hoffenthal,” Schotek drawls.

“I don’t care,” I say quickly. “Polly can do that. It doesn’t upset me.”

She hums, tapping the chair arm. “Absolutely riddled with typos, by the way. The translation, at least.”

“Yeah, first drafts tend to have typos,” Polly says dryly. “That’s beside the point.”

“How? You shouldn’t share sensitive material without the author’s say. That--” She rattles off some large words. “Wouldn’t you say? That’s your point, isn’t it? I was just pointing out your own actions.”

“Waldi’s my husband. That’s different.”

“How? He’s the author, not you. What gives you the right?”

“Polly’s my wife,” I say, taking a step forward. “It’s very different. She has the right.”

Schotek looks between us, a vague expression on her face.

“You’re dodging the issue,” Polly says. “Your friends aren’t--” A word. “They sent letters. _Already._ ”

Schotek crosses her legs. “And?”

“This story isn’t published yet. You get that, right? How that, on its own, makes this situation difficult?”

She cocks her head. The words slip out quickly and lowly.

Polly smacks the arm of the couch. “I’ve _met_ your friends. I _work_ with some of your friends. I don’t care what they believe; I care that they never seem to know how to shut their fucking mouths!”

Schotek flashes a patronizing smile. “They’re hardly public figures. You know how academics are. All conversations stay in the same circles.”

“Yeah, say that about Patty Beschmi.”

“What do you even know about Patty? Seriously, Polly.”

“I know enough.”

Schotek takes a sip from her coffee. “Polly, no offense, but you’re--” A word. It’s a vaguely familiar word. I can’t place it. Water, through my fingers.

Polly parrots it back, offended. “You really have no clue. You don’t know the shit I’ve seen. Nobody from here gets it at all. This is a piece of fiction from a Kolnoskan author who’s been--” She takes a deep breath, releasing it shakily. “Sofie, just...try to think about it from our perspective.”

“What makes you think I don’t know? I probably know more than you do about the actual situation in Kolnosk.”

From Polly’s face, it’s clear she doesn’t believe her.

Schotek languishes in the chair. “Did you let him read the letters they sent? What do they say?”

“Of course,” she says stiffly, shooting me a look. Schotek looks at me, too.

I feel as though I’m caught in a snare, limbs frozen.

“You’re lying,” Schotek points out.

“Who cares? Sofie--” Polly breaks into a quick tirade, words slurring from her lips in a low tone.

“Like I said. You’re--” That word.

“You are so...fucking ignorant!” Her shin kicks at the table as she sits up, knocking her coffee mug onto the floor with a sharp thud.

Half a second seems like an eternity, watching the carpet fade from green to mottled brown.

Polly’s shrill voice still ricochets in my skull, running down my spine, a frisson rumbling from nape to tail. I stand, frozen in time. The coffee is a river flowing into a self-made estuary.

“Ah. Excuse me,” I murmur. My legs take me to the kitchen, limbs automatic, my fingers snatching the damp dish towel from the sink. A stain is troublesome. My brain shivers. It’s difficult to explain. Stains are omens, and omens shouldn’t be ignored. Polly always said I was highly superstitious. I can’t help it, though. Stains are deeply problematic.

(A ceiling above my bed. I would stare at it in the darkness with blurry, strained eyes. I couldn’t see it, but I still knew it was there, hanging above me, the mark of a beast. Born the same day I was, whispering stolen secrets if I strained my ears. The window heaved with animal breaths, barely holding the night at bay. I believe in monsters, it’s true. A white figure, through the cracked glass, standing in the woods. Deep-set, sparkling black eyes above a hanging jaw. The stain was preferable to that. I looked at the ceiling, instead.)

Maybe Nene Hochsprach was right about me. I’m an absolutely crazy disappointment, among other deleterious qualities. Who can say? Whatever I am, I am. It doesn’t matter what anyone calls it.

What I _am_ is a husband, and a husband supports his wife.

When I return, Polly’s dumbly cradling the mug, coffee dripping over her fingers and onto the carpet.

I get on my knees and start mopping up the stain.

Schotek mutters something. It isn’t in Standard. My vision shivers as I try to place it. Villichian? Maybe. It had that musical quality. 

Polly groans. “Waldi,” she says, strained.

I look up, humming.

“Get up. Please.” Her tone is low, in Kukisch.

“It’s going to stain,” I say.

“Yeah. Fine. Lemme help you, then.” She slips off the couch, kneeling beside me, her skirt fanning on the floor, edge settled close to the edge of the stain.

I blink. “Uh. It’s a one-person job.”

“Then let me mop it up. It’s my mess.”

“No?”

“What do you mean, no?” she snaps.

“It’s...” I search for an argument, some plea to keep me down here and out of their business. It’s unseemly to have Polly on the floor, much less cleaning up a coffee spill. And I don’t want to intrude on women’s conversations, and I _really_ don’t want to be the center of women’s politics. I want to go to my room. “ _Our_ mess?”

“’Our mess’? You aren’t making any sense.”

“I’ll clean.” I try to hide the desperation building under my bones. I’m becoming tense and out of sorts, like cracked concrete. It’s dizzying. Polly and I are sitting on the floor together, hunched over this stain while it spreads. She doesn’t belong down here. Schotek doesn’t belong over there. I don’t belong anywhere. “Please talk to Schotek. I would appreciate it.”

“It’s like taking to a cinderblock wall.”

“What are you saying?” Schotek asks, Kolnoskan stilted and proper. It sounds oily and strange to my ears. Easy to understand, but crooked in some way. It’s much better than my Standard accent.

I open my mouth, then think better of it.

“Why don’t you talk to her,” Polly mutters, tugging the towel out from between my fingers. “Tell her she’s a bitch.”

“Um. I’d much rather not.”

She shoves the coffee mug into my hands, her fingers millimeters from mine. The liquid is lukewarm, running over my fingers in rivulets like spittle. I swallow, standing up. My knees click.

“Schotek,” I say brightly in Standard, too artificial even to my own ears. There is no tremor. I don’t know why there would be a tremor. “Please excuse me so I put the mug in the sink. Then I will be back.” I nod my head. “Thank you.”

“It’s fine,” she says, absently hefting her cup in her hand. “I was tired of arguing.”

It’s an easy exit. I set the mug in the sink and open the faucet, cold water spilling onto the thin skin of my hand. I watch my veins shrivel in irritation, slipping my fingers inside of the cup to rinse it out.

“The last thing he needs is the Reitd cops on his ass,” Polly hisses, voice weaving through the slithering water.

Schotek mutters some response.

The water is very cold. It’s because I didn’t turn on the hot water. Oh. I stare at the space between the faucet, vision wavering. I think the past week is just catching up to me. It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it? And I don’t really understand the full gravity of anything. Schotek should have never come over. We should have just pretended she doesn’t exist, or some other temporary solution that would have made me much more comfortable.

“You have no idea, okay? You have no idea what he’s been through. He dealt with enough shit in Kolnosk; he doesn’t need Bismaché’s brand of bullshit, too.”

Schotek hums, unconvinced.

It’s an easy spot to re-insert myself, before they say anything I’m better off not hearing. “Ah. Hello,” I call, stepping into the living room with slow movements. I wipe my jittering hands on my pants, feeling the moisture spread across my thighs in chilled pinpricks.

Polly shoots me a strange look, jaw tight. The dish towel lies limply on the floor.

Schotek languishes in her chair, holding up her mug. “Hello, Hoffenthal,” she says. “By the way, I really enjoyed your story. I have some questions, though.”

Polly grunts, aghast.

I cock my head, neck creaking. “Ah. I can try to answer, Schotek. However, please don’t share my story. It’s against my wants.”

“Right. Understood. This is really your fault. You should have told me this ahead of time.”

“Like it would have mattered,” Polly says under her breath.

“That ending,” Schotek says.

I incline my head, chewing on the soft meat of my cheek.

Polly sits like a statue, jaw tense as a harp string.

Schotek clears her throat. “In your story, a monster and a girl are friends. Are they not? I understand the girl’s story, of course, but the monster confuses me. The ending doesn’t seem to follow a normal story. And this world they live in, it’s so strange. It makes no sense. Do you understand me?”

“I understand,” I say.

“Why have that ending? It’s...rather--” Some word. “--isn’t it? I don’t see the purpose. Is it a moral?”

“There are no morals inside my writing.”

She stares. Polly side-eyes me.

“Well. It’s all metaphor...s,” I admit. “But it’s not so deep.”

“I just think it’s interesting.” Schotek readjusts herself in the chair.

“We’re not talking about this,” Polly says stiffly. “Forget it. You won’t read it again, anyways.”

“Well, it’s getting published isn’t it?” she says. “Unless you’ll somehow stop me from picking up my subscription.”

Polly’s upper lip curls.

“I thought it was strange, anyways,” she continues. “The setting, too. All this talk of holes and dirt and gardens. It follows the theme, but I found it a little--” A word.

“Ah,” I say. “I’m sorry. I don’t know that word.”

Schotek glances at Polly. Polly doesn’t say anything. Schotek clears her throat. “Anyways. What _was_ your reason, though? For the ending. It seemed like a social message. I found the ending very interesting.”

Does it matter? I don’t think it does. My heart flexes in my chest, beating to an angry drum. Schotek is a very thoughtless person. Social nicety dictates that I answer her, that I fill her coffee, that I smile and hold my hands in front of me, but she’s hardly a guest. She has no right to anything in Polly’s apartment, at this point. Polly is angry with her, but she still let her inside. Why? What do I do? I don’t know the social code for this sort of situation.

I glance at Polly. She’s sulking on the carpet, unmoving. A Hochsprach woman on the floor. It’s more shameful than being shoved in a kitchen. And the stain is only getting worse. Once it soaks into the floor, there won’t be much that we can do about it.

“It’s the only fitting ending,” I say in Kukisch, because I can’t say such important things with a fumbling tongue. The words slither from my mouth without any real thought. “Eternal hunger is insatiable by its very nature. And isolation begets isolation. The desire for connection only serves to create cracks in the foundation of ourselves. An absence, a fissure that longs to expand forever. Filling it only makes a moat. An ocean that forms islands out of each man.”

Schotek shoots Polly another look. Polly doesn’t say anything.

“It’s the only proper ending,” I murmur.

The room is quiet.

“I can’t say it very well in Standard,” I apologize to Schotek.

“A shame,” she says, from the chair. “If only someone could do it for you.”

Polly says something quickly. Her face is pale, papery and thin.

Schotek snorts.

I stand like a trembling stalk in the breeze, legs strung tight and vibrating.

Polly shouldn’t be on the floor. Regardless of our issues, I would never want to be standing while Polly sits on the floor, mopping up a mess. My brain titters around this, stuck between so many problems. Polly on the floor, the stain, Schotek in the chair. No real solutions to be found.

And that stain. It’s...beyond distracting, what it might mean. I’m not rightly sure. Stains are certainly omens, and omens shouldn’t be ignored. What is it saying, though? A stain? I don’t know. I really don’t know. I’m no mystic; I can’t hope to divine the future accurately.

“Did you understand what I just said?” Schotek’s voice.

“Yes,” I answer automatically, starting again. “I understand, thanks. I need to clean the carpet before it has stain.”

Being on my knees is a comfort. I don’t like standing above Polly. It’s wrong. I grab the limp dish towel. The carpet is certainly going to stain. I can mitigate the damage, though. The coffee is unfurling across its canvas, too early to form a proper shape. Maybe a fish, I think. It’s too soon to say.

The carpet fibers are rough under my hand, damp and warm. Goat-like in texture.

Schotek says something quickly.

Polly responds.

It doesn’t mean anything to me.

“Waldi,” Polly says.

I look up. She’s staring straight ahead.

“Go to your room,” she says lowly.

“Ah... Okay.” I stand up, knees stiff and clicking. She holds out her hand, reaching for the dish towel. I drop it in her open palm. Brown coffee leaks out of the corner, rolling over the curve of her wrist.

The stain is certain. I accept this development.

I’ve no choice.

Schotek looks at me with flat eyes, unreadable and impossibly deep. Schotek’s eyes are the depths of the ocean, where the sun’s light never reaches. I wonder why she shared my story. I suppose she wanted people to read it. Maybe it really is that simple. Polly doesn’t seem to feel that it’s so simple. Nothing is ever simple, but I can only ever supply simple explanations.

 _Why do any of you do these things?_ I don’t ask. _Why do any of you do_ anything _?_

“Waldi.” Polly’s voice, sharp and insistent.

“Ah.” I nod. “My apology. Goodbye, Schotek.”

I can feel their eyes on me as my palm rests on my doorknob, the metal cool and slippery under my skin. It twists easily. There’s no sound. There’s no sound when I open this door. Anyone could open this door with no sound. I slip into the room like a spectral creature, unseen and unheard from the darkness therein.

The door clicks closed softly.

There is silence for only a short moment before voices rise again. They’re too muddy for me to understand. I absently rub my socked foot into the carpet. My floor back home was wood. Boards and mud.

This room is an improvement, objectively. Yes. It has carpet and a greased door and a light bulb and no windows.

“Don’t ask him about his story. And don’t insert shit that doesn’t belong. Don’t--” A word. “--shit. You’ve got to leave him alone. You screwed up, okay? You lost privileges.”

“You’re quite controlling of him.”

“Well, guess what, Sofie? I’m Kolnoskan. Sorry. That’s how we do it. I’m the controlling bitch.”

I sit down on my bed, an invisible altar in the artificial night. I lie back, spine lax against the mattress. The mattress is nice. I’m used to it, now. I’d never had such a nice mattress before, but I already take this one for granted. It’s firm, but not too firm. It smells new.

“For all the shit-talking you gave Kolnosk, you took it all back once he came into town, huh?”

“It’s different in practice,” she says stiffly. “He has needs. He’s... Some shit went down, before he came here. A lot of shit. I need to make sure he has--” Some word. “He needs to feel as safe as he can.”

“He doesn’t seem to feel very safe.”

“Yeah. I fucking know.”

They’re quiet. I stare at my light bulb, sharp and shining in the darkness. The ceiling is otherwise bare. I can’t see it, but I can still stare at it.

“He’s my responsibility.” Polly’s voice is soft.

Schotek grunts.

Muffled words.

Schotek grunts again.

“He’s so cute, isn’t he?” She sighs. “The world sucks. In another life, everything would have been perfect.”

“He’s actually quite ugly,” Schotek says. “Life would find another way to ruin your plans.”

“Back in Kuk, every girl loved him. They were jealous of me, you know, that he was my friend. He never talked to anyone else. He was like a ghost with other people.”

“He’s like a ghost _now.”_

Polly’s quiet for a moment. “Yeah. I know.”

“Then what changed between you two?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Mmhm.”

“No, really, it is. And... I’m not going into details.”

“You feel badly.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“I can’t understand if you don’t tell me. I thought we were friends.”

“Yeah, well, remember that I’m mad at you, right now. Don’t test me.”

“I don’t think you’re very nice to him.”

Polly doesn’t say anything.

“Right. I shouldn’t test you. My bad.”

“You don’t understand anything. I can’t hate you for being stupid. Just leave soon, okay?”

“How should I--” Big words. Or maybe lots of small words. Does it matter?

“Who knows? That’s your problem, isn’t it?”

Muffled.

“Let me put it this way: I don’t want to be involved and I _really_ don’t want Waldi involved. Don’t--” A word I don’t know. “Leave him out of your shit.”

I should turn on the light. I don’t. I sit in the dark. Rattling around in a truck bed, cosseted by stinking fur. I’m in a room that isn’t mine and I can pretend.

It would be nice, I think, to go home. It would be nice, if everything returned to how it was. Bad mattress and all. Mottled ceiling and crooked window and muddy floorboards. I could sit in silence and feel a cautious numbness envelope my entire body, like my skeleton had been dunked in novocain. I would love it if the world were separated from me by mosquito netting. Maybe being alone is better than Bismaché. I know it isn’t, though.

The carpet’s going to stain. Change is on the horizon. An omen.

I never discount omens. I never discount anything. The rain is an omen, too. Bismaché is full of omens. Back home, omens were rare and insinuated themselves in the language of the trees. Upturned poplar leaves and peeling birch bark. I could read the turn of the seasons with ease.

Now here I lie, separated from that world and thrown into another. A brand new mattress and no windows. A light bulb replacement for the ceiling stain. It says nothing to me. An empty ceiling, as devoid of life as the gray sky. The seasons don’t matter in Bismaché. It’s all rain. Rain can mean anything. Sometimes, rain is good luck, they say. Rain is cleansing, I suppose. Water. But that’s often in the context of bathing. Rain, here, I can only read one way. Rain washes everything away.

But a stain. That’s the opposite. It’s troubling. I don’t know what to make of it. I suppose I’ll have to wait and see. Stains and I don’t have the best chemistry. Stains aren’t like trees. Stains don’t tell me everything.

They do stick around, unlike rain. I know that much. I wonder if the omen has anything to do with the situation of its origin. Polly and Schotek. Conflict. The manuscript. It’s certainly concerning. I wonder if it’s a sign for me or for someone else. If it involves the manuscript, it must involve me, right? I’m the one who got the coffee, so it must be about me, surely?

Is there some action I need to take? Some information I need to discern? I’m uncertain. The thought forms knots in my intestine, gurgling and insistent. I take a deep breath and I consider my courses of action. My brain helpfully supplies nothing of note. White noise. I see the edge of my father’s porch, where the sun set. The swimming hole behind Polly’s house. Meaningless images. My brain is an idiot. 

The front door clicks.

I hum, a broken bar warbling from my throat, off-pitch and falsetto.

Polly doesn’t knock on my door. I don’t hear anyone move in the living room. I can hear cars faintly rumbling on the street, below. It’s difficult to hear, in this room. I can’t hear wind or trees. The rain always comes through, though.

The door is quiet opening the other way, too.

“What did you hear?” Polly asks tiredly, lying on the couch.

“A little.” I rub the doorknob. “Thank you for not telling Schotek about my psychotic break.”

She groans, teeth gritted, the tone rising in volume until it peters out abruptly.

“You’re a good person, Polly.”

“I’m definitely not. You should know that better than anyone.”

I don’t say anything. There’s really nothing to say to that.

“Besides, it’s none of her business,” she mutters. “Hell, it’s none of _my_ business. That’s your business.”

Polly never pushes me on anything.

I wonder if it’s easier that way for both of us. Something weary insinuates itself in the hollow of my stomach at the thought. Just the usual ugly feelings. I refuse to entertain them. They do nothing for me. They don’t help anyone.

“Have you ever seen the ocean?” leaves my lips, distracted and airless. I pick up Schotek’s mug, watching the leftover coffee curl against the edges of the porcelain.

“The ocean,” Polly echoes absently.

“The ocean,” I confirm. “I’ve never seen the ocean.”

She doesn’t say anything. I don’t look at her. I don’t see anything I don’t want to see.

My fingers curl tightly around the handle, knuckles smooth and pale. Such fragile, fine bones. “Forget it.”

She doesn’t say anything.

“I need to clean that stain,” I say, turning toward the kitchen. I take a bowl out of the cupboard and squirt some soap inside, setting it in the sink. I watch warm water fill the bottom, flowing over the edge and into the drain. Magical.

“I went to the ocean as a kid.” Polly’s voice is behind me. “Saint Golig Beachfront, in Jotin.”

“That sounds nice.”

“It was.” I hear her shoulder thump against the doorway. “We had to take a boat over, since, you know, Jotin’s an island. It wasn’t that long, though. Um, just an hour ride. Ichma was still a baby. I remember my dad spent the whole trip in the lower deck with her, since he got seasick easily.”

Her footsteps pad across the floor, coming closer.

“I read a story about someone from Jotin, once.” I watch the water bubble over the filled bowl. “It was from a discontinued journal out of Rigàna. The narrator was a lighthouse keeper. I really liked it.”

“You read that at my house. My dad kept all those journals. He collected stuff like that. The world’s worst organized library.” Her thin arm reaches over my shoulder, shutting off the faucet.

I hum.

“I saw a lighthouse, when we first got there. There wasn’t a lighthouse on the beach, though. I guess that makes sense. It was a recreational beach.”

My fingers lift, reaching for the faucet.

“The ocean was really cold, though,” she says. “I couldn’t go in it for very long. It smelled really bad at low tide, too.”

Her arm rises over me again, her hand gripping the faucet. My fingers still, frozen in the air.

“Grab the bowl. The dish towel’s in the living room.”

The dirty dish towel. I don’t object. I don’t care enough. Water slops against me as I grab the bowl.

“You should go to bed after this,” she says. “It’s been a stressful week. I’m going to sleep for ages.”

I frown. “I feel fine.”

She eyes me, before walking into the living room. She doesn’t believe me. Or, well, she disagrees. That’s Polly’s disagreement face, not her disbelief face. I’m intimately familiar with both sets of eyes.

I set the bowl on the coffee table, reaching for the dish towel. Polly had left it on the floor. I squeeze it over the water, raining into the bowl.

“I think Sofie’s got the idea that she’s _maybe_ done something wrong,” Polly says, sitting on the couch.

“She doesn’t seem like the type who feels bad about anything.” I wring out the cloth.

“We’ll just have to see how it plays out. Who knows with those letters? They were fairly innocuous, but.” She stops. I can’t know why she’s hesitating. I didn’t read the letters. Polly shoved them into one of the kitchen drawers. “Well. I guess we’re lucky they weren’t telegrams. The postal workers definitely screen those.”

My vision wavers over the stain. “What about Oschwall?”

She shakes her head. “What about him?”

“Should we tell him this happened?”

“Are you dense? No way.”

I press my fist into the carpet, dish towel squelching against my fingers. “Well, what are you going to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“I figured you’d have a course of action in mind. Or inaction. Something.”

“I mean. Like, _maybe?_ Why are you suddenly so interested? I thought you didn’t care.”

I shrug, chewing on my lip.

Her eyes shutter. _“Seriously?_ Is this about that stupid stain?”

“Um.”

“That is such a you move. Ugh.”

I fidget, dish towel squelching around my fingers. “Well. I don’t know. I thought you wanted me to know about things. And I was, um. Thinking about it. That’s all.”  
She grunts.

“Of course, you don’t have to do it. I just thought, that’s all. You know you don’t have to tell me anything.”

She makes a terrible noise. _“Why_ are you like this? Stop being so passive-aggressive. Holy shit.”

“I’m sorry.” My heart pulses in my chest, heavy and bloated with blood.

She takes a deep breath. “It’s fine. Or-- It’s-- I don’t know. I’m not mad. You don’t need to be sorry.”

“I’m just...worried, sometimes. I don’t really understand what’s going on. --Which is fine, of course.” I squeeze the dirty dish towel in the brown water. It’s brown like Polly’s eyes. Polly’s eyes look like coffee stains or chocolate squares or unsettled mud at the bottom of a pond. Some simile. Similes are tricky. It’s important that they make sense. Good similes layer underlying meaning behind the comparisons, comparisons that build off of the established schema of the narration. All good writing is internally consistent. Polly’s eyes are brown like the color brown.

She doesn’t say anything.

“I’m trying my best, although I know I don’t succeed. I’m sorry I believe stupid things. I understand our relationship is complicated, but I would prefer if we were amicable. I do respect you, Polly.”

“Can you talk to me like a normal person?” She sounds tired, marrow-deep.

I look up. She has a stray strand of hair stuck to the side of her mouth. “I don’t understand.”

Her voice rises. “Just talk to me like we’re both normal fucking people, is it that hard?”

My hands jerk against the floor, tendons snapping in my arms. I stare at her.

She rubs her face. “Let’s just pretend we aren’t married. For five minutes, even. Talk to me like we’re not married. Can you do that?”

“No.”

She groans.

“What do you want me to say, Polly?” I set the dish towel in the dirty water, sitting up on my folded thighs. “Should I have some emotional outburst or something? Should I be companionable and commiserating? What are you looking for, here?”

“That’s your problem,” she says flatly. “You’re looking for a ‘should’ or a ‘want.’ Always. You’re always doing that. If you have a problem with me, you should just outright say it. I’m giving you permission, or whatever magic phrase I need to say. Okay?”

I shift on my haunches, feeling loose, lukewarm water drip down my forearms. “I don’t have a problem, though.” She snorts. I try again, “Well. I’m sorry that you think I’m dumb.”

“I don’t think you’re dumb.”

“Okay,” I say. “Well, either way, it’s been about a month, here, together. And I know we’re not picture-perfect traditional. Maybe that’s for the best; I wouldn’t know. But I think we can agree this wasn’t the initial arrangement. We’re different people than we were, two years ago. --Or, well, you’re different.”

_“I’m really not.”_

“Well, you seem different to me.” I turn my attention back to the carpet stain. “I guess I’m trying to say: I don’t know the script, here. I don’t know how you want me to act, especially with all of this going on. --Sorry for saying ‘want.’ I guess you don’t want me to figure out what you want. Um. Sorry for saying ‘want’ again. It feels like I can’t really win.”

Polly’s quiet. I look up. Her eyes are trained on the air past my ear. “I get that,” she says slowly.

I shrug, lips tugging. “Maybe it’s not a you or me problem. Maybe it’s just this place. Or maybe it’s the context of our relationship. I’m not sure. You left so quickly after the wedding; it’s hard to say.”

She wears a discomforted expression.

I run my fingers over the wet hairs of the floor. This is as good as it gets. It won’t come out. Maybe there are cleaning products that can exorcize such stains, but I don’t know of them. Polly definitely wouldn’t know anything on the subject. There’s no one I can ask.

I wonder what that would mean, if I could just remove an omen like that. Maybe this is for the best.

“I just wish it were simple,” I admit. “It really frustrates me.”

She shifts on the couch. Her knees are so close to my head. Right by my ear. She could kick me. I think about Nene Hochsprach dragging me around by my neck like a dumb steer. Her boney fingers digging into the meat of my throat, a point of human contact. She’s a mother, but her fingers felt like the brand of a taskmaster on my skin. It doesn’t count. If Polly kicks me, that won’t count, either.

The stain is mottled brown on the carpet, an ugly thing. The shade of a diseased tree trunk, rotting from the inside. An invisible mold infestation.

“If I want it to be simple, then why can’t it be simple?” I murmur, my breath brushing against the table.

“It can’t be simple,” she says.

“I wish you believed me,” I say. “I can’t help what I think is true.”

She doesn’t respond.

Above me, her face outside of my vision, I feel like Polly is something different from me. Something better. She doesn’t believe in things that she can’t see. I wish that were me. Polly has always been flesh and blood, firm and fixated on her goals. Polly always pursues what she wants, what she thinks is the best course of action. Polly didn’t grow up with a stain sibling on her ceiling.

Then there’s me. The anemic ghost. We really aren’t evenly matched at all.

The ugly stain, it’s still slowly creeping across the carpet. I trace its edges with my fingers. I see a ship in the shape. There are so many things that a ship could mean. Is it a sailing ship or an anchored ship? A sinking ship? Maybe it isn’t a ship at all. Maybe I’m just an idiot.

“Seriously, you’re getting into a weird mood. You should go to sleep.”

I look to the side, at her poised knees. They’re covered in stockings. Or whatever women call them. ‘Stockings’ sounds maybe too girlish. Her hands smooth over her skirt, a repetitive motion. Her button-up is tucked into the fabric, pressed and white. I ironed all her clothes, a week ago. The detergent smells foreign and floral. We didn’t use detergent, back home. Underneath the detergent, I can smell her shampoo. Polly, my only friend outside of a ceiling stain. My only friend in the whole world, but not quite my friend, anymore.

“Seriously, Wally. We’re both stressed. You should go to sleep.” Polly sounds immeasurably weary. She’s taken a ship before, hasn’t she? She said she’s been Jotin, one of the island states. “I’m sorry about the stain. I didn’t mean to be such a jerk about it. And I’ll make some calls, if anything comes up. I’m not trying to keep stuff from you. I want you to know stuff. I’m talking to you right now. I’ve _been_ talking to you. But you worry about enough things. I’m keeping track of everything. I’m just...”

“You’re trying to protect me,” I finish. “That’s sweet, I think. I just wonder how futile it is.”

Polly tucks her hair behind her ear, looking down on me with a wide-eyed, pursed expression. She has a round face and a small nose, a flat forehead with delicate brows. When I think of women, I think of Polly’s face.

“I think you’re cute,” leaves my mouth, without any thought. That’s more humiliating than any grip Nene Hochsprach could have throttled my neck with.

She has an odd look, cheeks ruddy and eyes glossy. Her teeth saw into her bottom lip. She is really cute. I’m not cute at all; Polly’s the cute one. My stomach squirms, an illness burrowing into my bones. I think about sailing. I think about sitting behind her house, at the swimming hole. All the stupid things we would say to each other. Floating paper boats and watching them inevitably succumb to the pond’s waves.

“You should get up,” she says quietly.

I blink.

“Get off the floor. You should go to bed.” Her fingers grip her skirt.

I sit back, swallowing. I nod. “Yes, Polly. I’m, um. I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Her voice is tight, like a cord ready to snap.

“Do you come in my room at night?”

She stares. _“No.”_

“Right. Sorry. I don’t know where that... Uh. Sorry.” I lick my lips, tasting stale air and imaginary coffee. The door hinges are silent, but I can hear it when she rests her hand on the handle and when she takes it off. I suppose she wouldn’t answer, if it were the case, anyways. I stand up. “Okay. Thank you so much.”

“Go to bed.”

I nod, ducking my head. My chin knocks against my chest and my teeth clack. “Yes, Polly.”

Her fists are tense over her knee. My eyes flit to the floor, where her stocking-ed feet press into the carpet.

“It’s an omen,” I point out. “The stain.”

_“Waldi.”_

“Why can’t you take me seriously? I’m not a child. You say you’re sorry, but you always-- Ah. Sorry. I didn’t mean that. I really didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t say anything.

I nod again, throat bobbing. “Goodnight, Polly. Or good noon?”

“Good noon,” she replies, inclining her head toward my bedroom door.

I take the hint.

\- - -

“I’m not scared of any of those stupid things,” she mumbled, throwing an arm over her face. “I don’t get why you’re so obsessed.”

“I’m not obsessed.”

“It’s all you write about.”

I couldn’t come up with an objection to that. She sat up, loose maple leaves clinging to her hair. Polly had cutting eyes. The older we got, the more dissected I felt whenever she looked at me. I squirmed, pulling my arms over my stomach.

“They aren’t real,” she said sharply, enunciating each word. “Monsters aren’t real.”

“I can’t help being superstitious,” I said, cringing into the dirt. I was twelve and it was unfortunately obvious what sort of man I would grow into, by then. I lacked any backbone or sense of social grace. When Polly dug into me, as she often did as a barbed newly-fourteen-year-old, I just offered my belly and hid my face.

“Sure you can.” She cocked her head. “Everyone else obviously can.”

“I think we all just believe what we’re used to believing,” I mumbled, fidgeting. My eyes trailed across the ground, to the lip of the swimming hole. Soggy paper remnants clung to the surface like a water bug.

Her tongue clicked. “That makes sense.”

“It’s like religion, I guess,” I continued, swallowing the inexplicable lump in my throat. I often got lumps in my throat, but they weren’t as bad as they used to be. I could talk through them now, at least. “Your parents are Goligists, right? You’re a Goligist, too. Howie’s college friend from Sudorta is a Malthist or something. His parents were probably Malthists, too.”

Polly hummed. “Does your dad believe in monsters?”

I blinked, flexing my neck in the scraggly tufts of grass. “I don’t know. He doesn’t really talk about it.”

“I guess he doesn’t really talk about anything, huh?”

“Polly, come on...”

“Sorry, sorry.” She didn’t look sorry. “I don’t get where you get _anything_ from, though. You’ve got such strange ideas about things. You talk about tree leaves and seasons like they talk back or something.”

“I’m sorry.”

She waved her hand. “You shouldn’t be sorry. Writers are supposed to be crazy, right?”

A cold nail slid down my spine, sharp and shrill. “I’m crazy?”

She blinked, face freezing. “I mean,” she said, “ _I’d_ be crazy if I had to live up on Mount Echmi with your spooky dad. You’re probably normal. Yeah, you’re definitely normal. You’re tougher than me.”

“You just said--”

“I was wrong,” she said. “Sorry. I’m sorry, Waldi.”

I searched her face, but it was tight and unreadable. “Okay,” I said. “I forgive you. My dad isn’t spooky, though. You just don’t know him that well.”

Polly’s shoulders loosened. I hadn’t noticed they were raised. “Okay. Thanks. But I’m not apologizing about your spooky dad. I can’t help it if I think he’s spooky. He’s kinda like a ghost. You don’t even look like him.”

“I think I’m supposed to look more like my mom.” I carded my fingers through the grass aimlessly.

“You think?”

“Um. Yeah.”

Polly clicked her tongue. “That makes sense. Anyways, you should write about something other than monsters, probably.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “If you’re gonna be a published author, you gotta write about stuff people know. Most people don’t care about monsters, these days. Athletes are in. You should write a lacrosse team romance novel.”

“I don’t care about being a published author.”

“Why not?”

“I’m gonna be a goat farmer.” I rolled onto my stomach. “Just like my dad. So it doesn’t matter.”

Polly made a discontented noise. “That’s super lame.”

“You can write your own lacrosse team romance novel.” I stretched my arms out in front of me.

“Aw, Wally, come on!”

I smiled, feeling the dirt crunch against my cheek.

\- - -

“We need to talk,” I say flatly.

“That stain is still bothering you?”

“It’s not the stain.”

Polly pats her spoon against her oat slaw. “The omen. Whatever you want to call it, it’s a stain on the carpet.”

“I don’t care what you call it. It is what it is. I agree. That’s not the issue.” Well. Not entirely. It’s an impetuous. It’s a call to action, I believe. Maybe a caution. I can’t say, for certain. Either way, it’s a signal.

Polly doesn’t respect these sorts of issues in the same way that I do. I learned that lesson years ago. I’m not a child. I know what I know, and I don’t discount omens. I don’t need to justify it to her.

She rolls her eyes. “Sit down and eat. You’re making me nervous, hovering over the sink like that.”

My fingers fidget over the faucet, twisting it without turning it on. “Sorry.” I look past the kitchen doorway at the large window in the living room. Jaundiced car lights intermittently pass, flashing over the couch. It’s oddly comforting in its foreignness.

“Are you feeling better?” she asks.

“I’ve felt fine.” My palm fiddles with the faucet. “But it has been a long week and I’ve said some inappropriate things. So I apologize for that. Among other issues. I hope I didn’t make a poor impression with Schotek.”

She snorts. “Who cares about her? She’s a jerk.”

“Do you two fight a lot?”

She looks at me.

I swallow. “Sorry, that probably wasn’t a great question.”

“I guess it’s our personalities.” She settles against her chair. “But she’s also just like that. She’s so thoughtless.”

 ** _People_** _are thoughtless,_ I don’t say. It’s an errant comment and it contributes nothing but tension to the conversation. I’ve fulfilled more than my share of fanning the flames of discord between us, today.

“We need to talk,” I say, instead, trying to reintroduce the issue.

She hums hollowly.

“Polly, I’m not trying to be difficult. I hope you understand.”

“I do.” Her voice lacks conviction.

“If something were to happen--” I try to keep the issue vague enough. “--I’d like to be prepared. I think that’s fair, isn’t it?”

“Mm.” She sits up, opening her posture. “Totally fair. I’m reading you loud and clear, there.”

“Do you think the Bureau of Better Entertainment is still concerned with me at all?” Stains stick around, after all.

Her eyes are sharp. “No.”

I lean my lower back against the rim of the sink. “Forgive me, but how do you know?”

“Because it’s _handled._ I told you. It was a while ago.”

“Oschwall seemed concerned about the current story.”

“And it’s edited, now. So? If Sofie’s friends talk, then we still have your written statement. I’ve been thinking about it, and that’s got to be our defense, if it comes to that. You have a legally binding statement, saying you don’t, you know, you don’t condone that sort of stuff.”

“Anti-state terrorism,” I supply.

She waves dismissively. “Whatever they call it. It doesn’t matter.”

“You’re awfully cagey about this.”

“And you’re ridiculously two-minded, you know? Listen. Wally, there’s nothing a _coffee stain_ is gonna do to change our situation, for better or for worse.”

I stare at her. She hovers above her oat slaw, body discreetly coiled.

She takes a deep breath, letting it slowly stream out.

“I apologize, Polly.”  
“Don’t apologize. Please. Don’t apologize for everything.” She rubs her face. “Look, I’m not. I’m not in a good mood, right? So maybe this isn’t the best time to have this conversation.”

“I’m sorry if this is inappropriate, Polly.”

She just shakes her head, jaw locked.

“I’m just concerned that things might stick around,” I admit. “And the manuscript seems like a reasonable thing to be worried about.”

“And it is reasonable,” she says, “but there’s not much we can do about it.”

“Sorry, maybe I’m misinterpreting you. You wanted to talk about this stuff the other day, when it was fresh.”

“You are so... I just don’t get how you get so worked up over crap like this.”

“About the manuscript?”

“It’s not about the manuscript; it’s about the stupid stain!” she snaps. “It’s about how meaningless stuff tortures you like this for absolutely no reason!”

Her voice reverberates tinnily in the small space. I hold my posture, fingers gripping the edge of the sink, palms clammy against the metal. Polly is still, staring into space with a stricken expression.

“Sorry,” she says.

“I’m sorry for bothering you,” I reply. It’s probably fine to say, since it’s so obvious.

Apparently it isn’t. Polly offers an especially sour look.

I try again. “Is there anything you want to talk about, Polly?”

She just shakes her head.

“I’d rather,” I try to say as kindly as I can, “that we communicate candidly.”

“You really have zero self-awareness,” she responds dryly.

I blink.

She takes a deep breath, scrunching her eyes. “Forget I said that. Or don’t. I’m just...in a really bad mood, okay? I shouldn’t take that out on you. You’re doing your best. I’m doing my best, too. Sometimes, it’s not good enough. And I’m sorry.”

I don’t really know how to respond to that. “Of course you’re doing your best.” It’s a feeble contribution.

She shakes her head again, roughly, like a wet dog. Then she settles. “I’m really trying,” she says to me and no one. “You know, I got everything together before you came here. I made up your room, I filled out your citizenship quota registration for the city, I cleared as much of the messy shit with Free Press as I could in the time I had. I did all that. I did it because I care, okay? You probably don’t even know what a citizenship quota registration is.”

“You’re right; I don’t.”

She rubs her face. “And that’s, like... It’s fine. Okay? It’s just so the government knows you’re registered with Bismaché and not an illegal or anything. It’s not... It’s not, like, it shouldn’t be relevant to your life. You shouldn’t have to worry about any of the dumb shit around here. That’s my job. I’m supposed to do that, but I’m always fucking up because that’s just what I do. But I’m going to do better, now. That’s a promise. I really am.”

I feel like we’re having totally disparate conversations, running on separate tracks. “Um. I think you’re doing fine, Polly.”

“I mean that I’m trying to take responsibility.” She grimaces. “I’m _trying_ to be a good wife. Just like I know you’re trying, too. I know you’re trying, okay? I see that. I’m letting you try, even if I...don’t... I don’t really... It’s... Whatever. So let me try, too. I have two years of shit I need to make up for. And I’m trying. I really am, Wally.”

Two years. I want to ask her why she even left in the first place, but I know this is far from the appropriate time.

“It’s okay,” I say. What else can I say? Only the obvious. Only the scripted lines. I can’t participate in any other type of conversation. There must be something I could say, some expression I could offer, some gesture I could make, but I don’t know what it is. There’s no script for that. I retreat to the safe lines. “Is there anything I can do for you, Polly?”

She opens her eyes. Brown eyes. Murky eyes. Her lips are pursed.

I lean further against the sink, resting my palms over the counter, running over the wooden pockmarks. My forearms tense and relax. My face is pliable and agreeable, posture open. I think about the stain under the coffee table, in the shape of a ship. A stain sticks around. It’s transformed the landscape of the living room. The world is trying to issue a warning. I don’t discount warnings.

There’s only so much I can do, though. It’s hard to say what Polly’s thinking, right now. It’s been a long day. It’s been a long week. I know better than to rock the boat. We’re on unsteady ground enough as it is. I wouldn’t know what to do if I were in a position where I could make substantial choices, anyways. The only action I ever took of my own volition didn’t end very well for me.

Stains are tricky, though.

She plunges her spoon into her oat slaw and lifts it to her mouth. “Yeah. You can sit down and eat dinner.”

\- - -

“Polly said your new manuscript came in,” Ichma drawled, upper body sprawled over the dining table.

“Oh. That’s good.”

“I’m sure she’ll get right on translating it and all that.”

“Um. Yeah, probably.”

“Can I read it?”

I blinked.

She sat up, lifting her chin. “I’m not a kid, anymore, you know. I’m fifteen. You don’t write smut, do you?”

“Uh... No.” I coughed. “I don’t. Write smut. It isn’t smut.”

She eyed me, frowning. “Is it about murder or something? Why can’t I read it?”

“You can read whatever you want,” I said. “Yes, it has death in it.”

“Polly says your last one is getting really good press.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“She didn’t tell you?”

I shrugged. “I just don’t care.”

Ichma grunted. “You and Polly are so _weird.”_

I stared at the tabletop. “I suppose.”

“How long is it?”

“Five pages.”

She scoffed. “That’s _short.”_

“It’s a short story.”

She cracked her knuckles, one at a time, pulling on her fingers. It was a grotesque sound. “How long did it take to write? A day?”

“Six months.”

She offered me a disbelieving expression, mouth slightly ajar.

I shrugged again, readjusting myself on the seat. I’d always sat in this seat at this table. As long as I’d known the Hochsprachs, I’d always sat here. Like a mockery of a family member. “Writing sometimes takes a long time.”

“I guess. Uh. --Well, your dad’s been really sick, right? So you’ve been busy. Anyways,” she said, slouching.

My lips quirked in a directionless expression. “Yes,” I agreed. “My dad has been sick.”

“When I was a kid,” Ichma said--Ichma, the fifteen-year-old--drumming her fingers on the table in an aimless rhythm, “my dad would make us bread and soup when we were sick. My dad made the _best_ bread.”

“He did.”

“Maybe you should spend less time writing and more time making bread and soup,” she said.

I raised an eyebrow. Not enough to be inappropriate. Not enough to be rude. I couldn’t really help it. Ichma didn’t seem to care, anyways.

“What’s your story about?” Ichma asked. “Polly seemed a bit weird over the phone about it.”

I cleared my throat, grimacing at the phlegmy sound. “Um. It’s about a classic monster. That’s all.”

Ichma breathed. “Ohhhhh. Oh, that’s easy, since it’s you, then. You’re, like, totally obsessed with that kind of stuff, you know?”

“I know,” I said dryly.

She held up a hand. “Well, if Polly was upset, I can make some pretty easy deductions, can’t I?”

“She was upset?”

“Well, I said ‘weird,’ didn’t I? I think she was upset. You know Polly. It’s usually not too hard to tell.” She sat back up, hauling herself forward with the edge of the table. Her lips curled in self-satisfaction. “So it follows that you did that dumb Miller’s Daughter story, didn’t you?”

“You’re very smart,” I said.

“You didn’t answer! You didn’t answer my question!”

“Yes.”

She hooted. “Then there’s no problem. I should definitely be able to read it. That’s a _baby_ fairytale. No one tells that one around campfires. --Well, except Polly, but she’s got really lame taste, so that’s why.”

“Mine isn’t a baby fairytale.”

She opened her mouth, yawning. Past her teeth, I could see a hole. Deep and wide enough to lead to the center of the earth.

“Mine has embellishments to it,” I said. “The story ends the way it’s supposed to end. Things happen the way they really happened. The only way they could have possibly happened.”

Ichma’s face crumpled, staring at me with befuddlement. “What are you _talking_ about?”

“My story.”

“No, you just said a bunch of random words that you shuffled around.”

“Sure.”

“See, now you’re just saying whatever to get the conversation to end. _Ugh,_ I can’t stand it when you do that.”

I shrugged, sitting up. My eyes turned to my folded hands, trailing the bumps of my knuckles. “It’s just how I think the story really ended. It’s what I think happened, or should have happened. A non-sanitized perspective that’s more in line with actual accounts of what we know.”

“You’re seriously just talking about--”

“Don’t say it,” I pleaded, reaching out in an aborted motion. I collected myself, pulling my limbs in close to my torso. “Um. It’s just. A superstition. I don’t like talking about it, in the daytime.”

She pushed her chair out, the wood screeching as she stood up. “If you’re trying to get me to not want to read your story, it’s working. I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t wanna read a jumbled word salad. I can’t believe Polly said you have a story that’s getting popular.”

“I have no idea if anything of mine is popular,” I said. “And that’s fine. Everyone has preferences.”

“I mean. You don’t _actually_ believe in that crap, do you? P-- Monsters and miller’s daughters who grow gardens overnight and all that. Because sometimes, it really sounds like you do.”

I blinked. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

Ichma frowned, looking at me. Her eyes flitted over my face, down my neck. She was studying me. Ichma had never looked at me like that before. The rest of her family had. But not Ichma. Not until now. Maybe she was right; maybe she wasn’t a kid, anymore.

“You should call Polly about the story,” she said, finally. “Sort that out, or whatever. I don’t want my sister upset.”

“Okay.”

“I gotta go to tutoring in a bit. So, uh. Tell your dad I say ‘hi’ and stuff. I’ll pray for him, at Sessions.”

“Thanks.”

Ichma shifted on her feet for a moment before leaving the room, hand trailing along the wall. I thought about finger stains and gaping mouths and regret. Other disconnected images that meant nothing to anyone except me.

 _It doesn’t matter if I believe any of that or not._ _It’s all real, regardless of your disbelief,_ I had wanted to say. _Reality is reality--it doesn’t predicate its existence on belief or disbelief._

But I sat at their dining room table in silence. This wasn’t my table. It would never be my table. I wasn’t part of their family; I was a bad investment that ate and shit.

Ichma was right. I should have been making bread and soup for my father. Even though I knew he wouldn’t eat it. My father had no interest in anything I made. He only ate stale, pre-packaged sandwiches I brought from town. If my hands crafted anything, it was immaterial to him. He couldn’t see or touch it. I was a breeze through the boards, coming and going from the house as nature dictated.

I took a deep breath, air inside air, immaterial within immaterial, and I secretly hoped I would dissolve with the act.

\- - -

Polly lays her books down heavily on the kitchen counter. Her hair is still wet from the shower, drooping in inky tendrils past her shoulders. “I was thinking we could eat something a little different, if that’s okay.”

“Ah. Of course, Polly. What did you have in mind?”

“Well, we’re having company, tonight,” she says. She holds up a hand. “--And I _just_ heard about it, so I promise I wasn’t keeping that from you or whatever.”

“It’s fine if you were.” I pull her favorite mug out of the cabinet. It’s stained, too. That stain isn’t my fault. It happened before I came here, just like the stain in my childhood home happened before I was properly born. “I’ll clean the apartment.”

She swats at the air. “It’s already clean. You’ve cleaned so much that it’s almost eerie. It looks like it’s ready for a realtor to show up. It’s not a big deal, anyways.”

“Okay.” I wonder who the guest could be. This has never happened before. Unprecedented, in the little time I’ve spent here. The only foreign entity I’ve seen Polly invite into this space has been Sofie Schotek.

She sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, fiddling with it between her teeth for a moment. “Rice soup?”

I incline my head. “Rice soup.”

“Yeah. Do you know how to make that?”

“Yes,” I say. I do, in theory. I made it, once, when my father was ill. He didn’t touch it, of course. It’s a classic comfort food. I only ever ate it at Polly’s house.

“I think we have everything for that.”

“We should, yes.”

She clears her throat. “I’ve got to run up to the university in a few hours. Hopefully, I’ll be back before seven, but I’ve got no guarantees.”

“Okay.” I take the percolator off of the stove. “Is there anything I can do, Polly?”

“Just make soup,” she says. “It’s really not a big deal.”

“Okay.” I set her mug on the table. She takes it with an absent hum, fingers thin around the handle. I rub at my face, feeling the catch of uneven stubble around my jaw. I haven’t used the bathroom yet, today. It’s probably still warm from her shower. I won’t use it for a while, then. The air makes me nauseous. It smells like her shampoo.

But I’d like to shave, soon. I feel dirty when I don’t shave. I hate feeling dirty.

“It’s an easy thing, isn’t it?” she asks.

I cock my head. “Huh?”

“Making soup. It’s easy, right?”

“I mean. It depends on the soup, doesn’t it?”

“Rice soup is easy, though, right?”

“Uh. It’s...pretty typical fare, yes. Is something wrong, Polly?”

She shrugs, flipping through a book until the pages settle around a bookmark. “I just know you’ve been sick, lately.”

“I don’t understand. I’ve been fine.”

“It’s been a long week,” she says. “So I’m not surprised if you’ve been a little feverish. You know?”

“I don’t?”

She shrugs.

I frown. “I can make rice soup. Of course. I haven’t had it in a long time.”

“Me neither.”

When I first came here, the refrigerator was piled with packed lunches from the corner convenience store. I doubt Polly’s cooked much, let alone Kolnoskan comfort food.

“Soup takes a long time,” I point out.

“Yeah, I guess it does.” She opens up her second book. “Let’s eat at seven-thirty to eight? Somewhere around there.”

“Sure.” I watch her flip through her books. She can read Standard, but I can’t. Of course, she’s studied Standard more than I ever did, and she’s lived here for years, and she’s naturally better at language acquisition. I didn’t even start speaking Kukisch until I was four. I was frequently mute throughout my early childhood. Very little required me to speak, until I met Polly.

I suppose I owe Polly for civilizing me. It’s a wry, only half-ironic thought.

She looks up at me, lips pursed.

“Yes, Polly?”

“Coffee’s black,” she says.

I blink. “Oh.” I reach behind me with searching fingers, until I hit the sugar bowl. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine.”

“That really isn’t like me.”

“You’re tired,” she says. “It’s fine.”

I scoop the sugar into the mug, watching it dissolve as it hits the coffee. “I’ll make dinner,” I say. “Rice soup. It’s easy. You have a full spice rack, after all.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever opened any of them, to be honest.”

I’ve already confirmed that this is the case. How Polly survived through university and living alone, I don’t know. Her body is certainly resilient.

I watch her fingers flip through the pages of her second book. “What are you reading?”

“Just literary analyses on an author I’m translating for a visiting research professor. The author wrote in Villichian and my Villichian is garbage, since I don’t really use it.”

“Oh. I’m sure your Villichian is very good.”

“It is,” she says. Polly has always had a healthy level of self-esteem. “Just rusty. I haven’t done any serious literary work in it in about a year or so.”

“Are there are a lot of Villichian authors?”

“Tons and tons.” She rubs her eye. “They all write super flowery stuff. Huge paragraphs, tons of big words, long extended metaphors that lead to nothing. Sometimes the adjectives make no sense, like someone chopped up a sentence and put the words in a blender. I’m not a fan.”

“I’m sure not all of them write like that, right?”

“Well. Not all of them. But most. I think it’s the standard over there, or something.”

“Ah. That’s interesting.”

“Yeah, it is.”

Dead-end conversations. The usual drivel. I don’t need to repeat myself. Polly will leave and I will stay here. She’ll do things of importance of which I can’t conceive. I’ll stand over a stove and pray that I’m making something serviceable. Cooking is chemistry, after all, and I never learned chemistry.

Polly must have learned chemistry at university. I wonder why she can’t cook, if she knows chemistry.

“You’re still going out with Franzi, right?”

I blink, vision focusing. I hadn’t even realized I’d drifted that much. “To the game?”

“Yeah.” She doesn’t look up. “The game.”

“Um. Yes, I think so.”

“Okay.”

“Is...there something wrong, Polly?”

“Not that I know of. Why would there be?”

I roll onto the balls of my feet, the back of my neck prickling. “Just, um. Your tone suggested, maybe, ah... I dunno.”

She looks up. Murky, pond mud eyes. Her brow quirks. “You’ll need to take your ID, to get into the stadium. I think it’s in my coat pocket, so just take it out when you leave.”

“Um, okay. Is that all?”

She shrugs, eyes lowering. “I’m just thinking. Don’t mind me, okay? You’ve got enough on your plate.”

“Just soup.”

She uncaps her pen with her teeth, the plastic pressing into her lower lip, glossy with traces of spit. “Soup’s enough, don’t you think?”

I stare at her mouth, contemplating how to respond. Nothing comes to mind.

\- - -

“Um. Hey, is Waldi there?”

“Speaks,” I answer, crunching the receiver against my face. I return to rinsing rice in the sink, the spray flecking against the underside of my chin. “Hello, Franzi.”

“Yeah, it’s Franzi. Or-- Well, you just said hi, so you know. Haha. Uh.”

“What’s up?”  
“Not much.” He pauses. “Just wondering how you’re doing.”

“Fine? How are you?”

“Oh, uh, fine. Fine, too. Yeah.”

I wait, but he doesn’t say anything else. The line crackles. I dump the rice in a pot. “Do you have the game tickets?”

“The... Uh, yeah. I do. It’s Friday, you know.”

“Ah. That’s soon.”

“Yeah.” Silence. “Uh, we’ll all be meeting up at the central train station. Um. We’ll gather at the train station. We’re going to the train station, before the game. Maybe noon? I’ll keep you in the know. Updated, I mean. I’ll tell you. --Sorry, I try to say things in a way that’s, you know, easy for you.”

“Yes, thank you. I appreciate it.” I wind the phone cord around my knuckles until it bites into my skin. “I understand. I’ll have to talk to Polly, to see when I am open to see you before the game.” I’ll tell her after the guest leaves, I suppose. It’s as good a time as any. Polly should know my schedule. I remember her face, jaundiced by the passing cars, as we sat on the couch. After eleven at night. She was so upset. ‘Worried,’ she had said.

“Right! Right, yeah. Definitely.”

“But any time will probably be fine.”

“Yeah, you guys don’t make many plans, do you?”

“No. Or yes. Ah. You are right. I agree. We don’t.”

Franzi laughs, the sound distorted through the receiver.

Everything is crooked. Something is wrong. I wonder what Polly and Schotek have said to him. I know Polly spoke to him on the phone, that one night. And Schotek doesn’t seem to understand the concept of discretion.

“I don’t know what you know.” I adjust the receiver. “But please, don’t worry a lot.”

“Oh, I’m, ah. I’m not. Maybe we should chat face-to-face? Talk to each other without the telephone. In person.”

“I’m glad to speak inside person, yes. But not now.”

“Maybe before the game,” he says, strained.

“Yes. That would work. Thank you, Franzi.”

The line is still open.

“Is there anything else?” I prompt.

“Uh. No. Nah. Nope. Talk to you later. Bye, Waldi.”

“Bye, Franzi.”

I hang up first. The pot hisses.

\- - -

It’s...Howie. Howie Hochsprach. Polly’s brother, standing outside her apartment door.

He blinks in the light from the apartment, eyes glazed like a shocked animal, before turning his gaze to me and offering an off-kilter smile. “May I come in?”

I step aside quickly, holding the door open.

He slips off his shoes and hangs his jacket on the coat rack in gentle, economical motions. “Waldi,” he greets, voice uncertain.

I stare at him, before ducking my head. “...Howie.”

“How are you?”

“Fine.” I rub my palm along my pant-leg. “Um. How’re you?”

“Fine,” he returns. He pauses, eyes searching the floor. “How’s Polly?”

“Fine,” I say. “How’s your, uh...fiancée?”

“Fine,” he says. He blinks again. “She’s from Sudorta, the southern state. I’m not sure if Polly told you.”

“She may have.” I scratch my neck. “I have terrible memory, sorry. That’s nice. I’m glad you’re getting married. I know you sent her many letters.”

He looks at me blankly. “...Sure.”

“Whenever you had to return home,” I clarify.

“To Kuk.”

“Yes.”

He shrugs. “Well, we live here, now.”

“I’m sorry, where do you live?”

“Just outside Bismaché.”

I blink. “Oh. Polly didn’t tell me.”

Howie looks at the wall, uncomfortable. “You needed some time to adjust,” he says, sheepish. “We didn’t want to trouble you.”

I don’t say anything.

“But I’m around,” he says. “If you need anything, just call. I’ll leave my address and stuff. You’re family, Wally.”

“I know.” I rub my arm. We aren’t family. We don’t even look anything alike. No one would ever mistake us for brothers. “You’re my brother-in-law.”

He nods tersely.

I open my mouth. “Howie...”

He looks at me.

“Um. Is Ichma, your sister, is she...still in Kuk?”

“Yes,” he says, face unreadable. “She’s with our mother.”

I nod, my bones tired and relieved. She’s alive, at least. I miss Ichma terribly, if I bother to think about it. She was the only one around, after Polly left for the city.

“She’ll be applying to university soon,” Howie continues. “She may even come here. I’ll let you know if she does.”

“Thank you.”

He shrugs. “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you we were around. But I have to agree with Polly, at least on that. It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it? How different it is here.”

I lick my lips. “Yes.”

There’s a lot left unspoken, between us. Questions we’re too uncomfortable or afraid to ask. _Is it bad different or good different? How are you doing, considering the circumstances?_ But it’s improper and invasive. Howie’s from a traditional family, the Hochsprachs, and he’s getting married to a Sudortan, from the southern-most state. I know nothing of Sudorta. I have no concept of what his life looks like, now. I know nothing of intercultural exchange.

“Wally,” he says, hesitating. I incline my head, waiting for him to finish. He might ask one of our unspoken questions. That would be dreadful, but maybe not such a bad thing. “Are you...okay, here?”

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it probably wasn’t that. The question is vague and fumbling. He’s referring to everything and nothing. It’s not a fair question at all; I can’t answer it. “I suppose? I don’t like it in Bismaché. Not right now, at least.”

He nods, jaw clenching and unclenching. Holding his words in his mouth. I’ve seen that face before. Howie was always the more diplomatic of his siblings. The most patient, the most accommodating. A silent leader personality. Howie is a good man, but there’s only so much a good man can do for me.

He really would be a good head of the Hochsprach house.

I’m almost frustrated for him.

“I, uh. I heard you’re being published again. You’re writing?”

“I’m writing,” I confirm. “I’m working on new stuff. My latest story is getting published this month, in the University Journal, but some people have already read it.” Some people. Schotek and the editor. Oschwall. And everyone else Schotek deigned to share it with. The letters in the kitchen drawer itch at my brain, unread and unwanted.

“That’s a lot of writing.”

I go through spurts. Ebb and flow. Now that I’m isolated with my language, it seems to leak out of me whenever I’m alone. What is there to say? To whom else can I talk? “Yes.”

“I’ll have to pick up the University Journal.”

I shrug. _He can’t read the original,_ I remind myself. The original is problematic. I don’t know why it’s problematic, but it’s problematic. “If you want.”

He gives a short laugh, loose and warm. His eyes flick toward mine. “Knowing your writing, I take it it’s not the most uplifting.”

“Ah. No, I’m afraid not. The one I’m working on now is much happier, though.”

He nods. “That’s...good.”

I want to tell him the mood of each story doesn’t really reflect my present state of being. My stories are retrospective, for the most part.

Maybe not, though. I’m no psychologist.

The one that Schotek and her ilk read--the monster story--well. I sometimes wish I had never written it, lately. It’s not political. I don’t think so, at least. I told Oschwall. It’s not political. But if it isn’t political, then why all of this? What have I done wrong?

The ending doesn’t mean what she thinks it means at all. Whatever she thinks, that isn’t it. All of my metaphors are deeply personal. She can see whatever she wants--that’s the transformative nature of text--but that doesn’t make her interpretation my intention. She has no right to foist that on me.

“You do seem better,” he says, “than when I last, ah, saw you.”

I shrug. “I’m hydrated, now.”

He opens his mouth, but closes it. Howie is the most thoughtful of his family by far. His sisters would have said whatever he didn’t say, just now. “Is Polly home?” he asks, instead.

“Ah, no. She’s running an errand at the university. Sorry. I’m making dinner, though. It’ll be done in fifteen minutes. She should be home soon.”

He nods, mouth flat.

I glance toward the kitchen. “Would you like to sit down in the kitchen? I’m making rice soup.”

“That sounds great,” he says. “Sure.”

“I’m not a good cook,” I admit, leading him through the doorway. “I’m serviceable, at best. I really should have been improving on that earlier, but I’m trying to get better, now, at least.”

“It’s seriously fine.” He pulls out a chair at the table and settles. “Carol--my fiancée--she’s the worst cook I’ve ever seen. So I’m sure you’re better than that. She once set the stove on fire.”

“She cooks?”

“We both cook.”

I glance at him. That’s fine, I suppose. I don’t really have a problem with that. Howie is a dutiful, upright person, regardless. He would never do something that could be considered inappropriate. It’s natural, for him. Unlike me. Howie’s a good man.

He clears his throat. “Polly’s not causing too much trouble, is she?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I say, standing over the stove. The soup smells strange. “No more than she usually does, I suppose.”

“That’s a lot, then,” he murmurs.

I shrug. “So your fiancée didn’t come with you?”

“My friend dropped me off,” he says, re-situating himself. There’s a discomfort in the line of his spine, extending up his body.

I hum, stirring. Why does it smell like that? I haven’t had rice soup in years, but I can still tell that something’s not right.

“So we’re having rice soup?” he asks.

“Um, yes. Is that alright?”

“Definitely. It’s my favorite.”

I grab the salt shaker and discreetly pump it over the pot. “Oh. That’s good, then. Polly asked me to make it.”

“That’s nice of her,” he says.

“Yes, I think so, too.”

He clears his throat.

I glance back at the living room, slanted in the dim light. A dark patch beneath the coffee table. A stain, for many years my sole companion in my bedroom. Looking down on me with silent, judging eyes. The eyes of a god.

I swallow, my heart hammering. My discomfort really is inexplicable.

“Your friend didn’t want to stay for dinner?” I ask, tone polite and solid.

“Uh, no. Yeah, no. He’ll be around to pick me up, though.”

“That’s nice of him.”

“Sure. He’s always pulling favors for me like that. I always thought he had a misplaced sense responsibility.”

“Well, it’s nice to do favors for friends.”

“Yeah, I guess.” He sounds strange.

I fumble through the spice rack, grabbing at each bottle I used in the concoction of this miserable witch’s brew. I did everything right, didn’t I? I’m not seeing anything out of order. Curry powder? I used it. Definitely. And paprika. I did. I know I did. Too much of something, then? No, because then it would smell like I used too much. It just smells...off.

“He’s my ex-boyfriend.”

The soup burbles. I blink, cocking my head. Howie sits at the table with a stiff loftiness, legs akimbo. He’s watching me, tracking my reaction. I don’t have much of one, I suppose, because he settles back into his chair with a scripted casualness. “Oh,” I say stupidly.

“It’s not--”

“Did you--”

Howie clears his throat. “His name’s Eresch,” he says. “He’s my best friend. He dropped me off.”

“That’s...a nice name,” I offer, fumbling for something appropriately neutral. “Where did you meet?”

“At university,” he says. “I didn’t meet Carol until I was on assignment in Sudorta, a year and a half ago.”

“Oh. Okay. That’s nice.”

“That wasn’t fair to drop on you. Sorry.”

“No, it’s-- It’s fine,” I say. “Uh. I’m just unfamiliar with that...sort of thing.” I grimace. “--That was a really bad way of putting it.”

He shrugs, looking away. “I’ve never told anyone. That just came out. Definitely not the best time to say it.”

“That’s, um. Fine. That’s fine. I can forget, if you want.”

“I know it’s strange,” he continues. “I know. So no one else knows. I’m fine with both men and women. No one in the family knows.”

“Ah.” I nod, neck stiff and warm. “Okay. I won’t tell. I don’t really understand, but I definitely won’t tell.”  
“I know,” he says simply. “That’s why I told you.”

I blink. “I’m really touched, Howie.”

He doesn’t make an expression. His fingers tap silently against the table.

“I’m sorry if this is...untoward, but does that mean you just... You stay with her? Or do you get a, um, a...boyfriend? A husband? A husband, too? Sorry if that’s too forward to ask. I’m fine with whatever you do with your life, Howie. You’re a good man.”

“I’m just with Carol.” His tone has a strange color. Not annoyed. I’m not really sure what to make of it. 

“We all thought you had a girlfriend, in university.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t know boys could be with boys like that,” I confess.

“They can, but no one talks about it.”

“Oh. Why?”

He just shakes his head.

“I won’t tell Polly,” I reaffirm.

“I still probably shouldn’t have said it,” he says. “I don’t know why I did. And you have enough to worry about, anyways, so don’t concern yourself. Eresch is picking me up between nine and nine-thirty, so I won’t be here too long, anyways.”

It’s strange to be best friends with an ex-boyfriend, right? I think so. Maybe not. Howie always keeps his emotions close to his chest. I don’t know much about relationships. Something still feels unsaid. That’s his business, though, I suppose.

“Eresch works for the federal investigative SD unit in Bismaché,” he says, “so he likes to give his friends rides places, just to make sure.”

The SD. That’s...lofty, I think. If he means what I think he means. The Special Detectives. They investigate big crimes, like murder sprees and terrorists and things like that. “Make sure of what?”

He shrugs. “Well, there’s a lot of nasty stuff at night, around here. Eresch is from Sudorta, so he gets it. Some people don’t take kindly to foreigners.”

“We’re from the same country,” I point out.

Howie’s lips quirk. He doesn’t need to say what I already know. We’re all countrymen in name only. That has become obvious to me during my stay here. Argrea is different all over. I think of the cops with bad accents who would make strange demands whenever I saw them, growing up. They hated us and I still have no idea why. I can’t imagine what would attract Howie to anyone like that.

“There’s gang violence around east-side, so Eresch volunteered to drop me off. We’re going out tomorrow, him and me and Carol and some other friends--Ben and Gulchen. Maybe you want to come? I could introduce you to everyone.”

“Well, I’d have to ask Polly,” I say. “--But now that I think about it, I’ll have to decline. I have to go to a game later this week, with Polly’s friend’s husband and his friends.”

“Sofie Schotek’s husband?” Howie asks.

I nod.

“I never met him. Polly seems to think he’s nice.”  
“He is,” I confirm. “He’s very nice.”

The door rattles. We look up, like deer hearing an unknown twig snap.

“Um, going back a bit, sorry: You mean the Special Detectives unit, right? Eresch is with _that_ SD?” I ask quickly, words tumbling out of my mouth into a jumbled heap.

Howie turns to look at me. “Yeah, the federal detective agency,” he says, befuddled.

“Th-the ones who go to Kolnosk, sometimes?”

“Uh, no. They only work with the Reitd cops and detectives occasionally. That’s the federal agency you’re thinking of. Reitd cops, right? The guys who patrol the streets.”

The door opens. I can see a sliver of Polly’s coat.

“Well, you probably haven’t noticed them around here. A lot of them dress like civilians, so... But once you notice them, you can clock them pretty easily. Special Detectives are always in uniform when on duty, though.” He gestures up his chest. “Gray uniforms.”

“Thanks,” I say quietly. Howie didn’t date one of the strange men who go to Kolnosk. That’s...comforting. “I guess I always thought they were all the same. I don’t think about them that much.”

Howie shrugs. “Sure. Anytime.”

“Hi, Howie,” Polly says in the doorway, brushing her hair behind her shoulders.

“Hi, Polly,” he says.

I stand stiffly at the stove.

“Smells good,” she says. “Is dinner ready?”

“I’ve just been keeping it warm, yeah.” I stretch for the cabinet, pulling down three bowls with a clatter. I hear a chair pull out, Polly settling herself at the table.

“How was your drive?” she asks Howie.

“Fine,” he says.

“Sorry about how bad parking is around here.”

“Oh, it’s no problem.”

Howie sounds warm and casual. _He’s lying by omission, though,_ I think. Polly thinks he drove here, but his friend drove him here. His ex-boyfriend best friend drove him here. I wonder how young Howie was when he started learning how to lie.

“Waldi said you were at work. How’s that?”

“Ugh. Don’t get me started. We’ve got this visiting professor and he’s super irritating. I just want to unwind, tonight.”

“Ah, gotcha.”

I spoon the mixture into each bowl. The texture seems right, at least. The soup wobbles in the bowls as I place them on the table. Polly and Howie look at me like nothing is wrong. My heart somersaults in my chest, springy and moist.

“It smells wrong,” I blurt.

They stare at me. My stomach burbles with ill embarrassment.

“I did something wrong,” I mumble.

Howie leans into his bowl. “Oh,” he says, after a moment. It’s a very simple ‘oh,’ but it snaps its jaws over my sternum like a steel trap.

Polly sits there, blinking in the yellow kitchen light with little concern. She must be tired. I feel awful, messing up something so simple. I only cause trouble. I’m the worst.

The chair creaks. Howie’s standing by my side, looking over my shoulder at the countertop. He reaches past my arm. My breath catches, liquid in my lungs, slopping against my trachea. Howie touches men like he touches women. That doesn’t bother me, necessarily, but I don’t...

What am I thinking? It’s Howie. Howie’s touched me, before. We aren’t family, but we’re more than friends. Howie did a lot for me, in Kuk. Howie’s a good man.

“Oh, okay.”

“What is it?” I ask him, voice gravelly with dread.

He holds up a spice bottle.

I shrug helplessly. It’s a spice bottle. I checked all the spice bottles before I used them, though. I did. Didn’t I? I smelled them, anyways. I couldn’t exactly read the labels. I smelled them, though. I’m pretty sure.

“That’s allspice,” Howie says.

I take a shivering breath. “Oh.” Allspice. Allspice. That’s obviously not a rice soup spice.

“It’s fine,” he says, ever-patient.

“I-it didn’t smell like allspice...”

“The spices are different, here.”

I blink.

He hands the bottle to me. “That says ‘allspice’ on it.”

I stare at the text, the lines shivering.

“It’s really okay, Waldi.”

“The spices are different?” Polly asks idly.

“They just taste a little different. It’s not a big deal. I don’t know why.”

Howie’s chair pulls out and in. “Waldi.” Polly’s voice. “Sit down.”

Allspice is allspice, though. _Allspice is allspice, though!_ I want to scream. If it’s different, then they should have given it a different name! Well, they have, I guess, but why doesn’t it smell like allspice? Allspice has a very distinctive smell. It hadn’t smelled like allspice when I had smelled the bottle. Now, standing in the front of the table, it’s all I can smell, though. Off-kilter, slightly strange, but there’s the cloying, earthy undertone. Everything in this place is wrong, but only just.

“Waldi.”

I sit heavily on the wooden chair, my pelvis conforming to the surface. My bones ache, rattling around my liquid insides.

The Hochsprach siblings smile at me. They have identical smiles. Dimpled. My fingers clench around my utensil, unwieldy. I take a tepid spoonful, raising it to my mouth.

It tastes like shit.

\- - -

I’d never met a policeman before, so I handled the situation as deftly as I handled every social situation in my young life: I stared at him and said nothing.

The man in the uniform swung his head around, mouth quirking. “Of listen,” he said, words slow and squeezed out from between his lips. “Please. School is where?”

School? School was thirty minutes out, by car. I didn’t say this, though. My throat was soldered shut with anxiety, my eyes steaming with shame. I clutched my ill-gotten bottle of soda pop in my hands, the glass cool against my palms, condensation sticking to my shirt fabric.

“Just leave him alone,” Polly said. “He doesn’t have to talk to you.”

“You girls here are all like this,” the policeman said, frowning. “So rude.”

“You’re the rude one,” she pointed out. “You’re really rude. He doesn’t want to talk to you.”

I did want to talk to him, desperately, but the words were caught in my throat. I was painfully shy, as a child. It often rendered me mute. My throat ached with unsaid sentences.

His eyes bulged for a moment, but his lips were flat. He was so much taller than us, a monolith of a man in his gray uniform. Then he said, “Oh well. I go to the post office. Unhelpful girl.”

“Wow,” Polly said as he walked away, boots kicking up dirt on the sidewalk. “Reitd cops are the _worst.”_

“Are they?” I asked, voice tight and high and strange. I was still very nervous.

She glanced at me. “Totally. My mom says they’re the reason we gotta learn Standard and all that crap. She says they’re the reason aristo- arist-- You know, the nobles are all gone. She says they ran them out of town or something. I dunno.”

“Oh.” I watched him turn the corner and disappear. He’d seemed fine, I thought. I ran my fingers along my soda pop bottle. It was my favorite flavor. Chamomile. This was the first time I had ever had it.

“Anyways,” she said. “Anyways. Let’s just go home. I mean, to my house. We can sit out back and hang out. Howie told me he caught a real fish in the swimming hole, the other day. I don’t believe him.”

“Howie wouldn’t lie,” I murmured. “Um. Thanks for the soda pop...”

Polly looked at me. She snorted. “Whatever. You’re welcome, _of course._ I had some pocket change lying around, so why not, right?”

“Right,” I echoed, feeling somewhat lost as we began to walk. I frowned, as we passed the post office. Ah, that policeman. He’d gone the wrong way.

Polly seemed to had noticed, as well. She laughed.

I took a sip from my soda pop, mouth sticky with sugar, and I smiled uneasily.

“He was a jerk, so it serves him right. He was so rude to you! You’re lucky I was there.”

“Um. I guess...”

“Don’t you worry,” she said, lifting her own bottle. “You can count on me, see? I’ve got everything under control.”


	5. Contact

Franzi has a smile that belongs on a dentistry billboard. It’s distractingly white, distractingly friendly. It only sets me further on edge, stuffing my fists into my jacket pockets as I hop on the balls of my feet outside the train station.

I only go up to his chin. It’s too easy to stare at his mouth. I think about Howie. I shouldn’t stare at men’s mouths, probably. They might get the wrong idea. I stare at Polly’s mouth all the time, though, and she never seems to notice.

“Once we get to the main station,” he says easily, “we’ll meet my friends and head to the stadium.”

“Okay.” My voice is swallowed by the crowd.

He curls and uncurls his fingers, buzzing with nervous energy. Franzi doesn’t handle his own emotions especially well. I don’t think many men around here do, but I can’t be sure. I only really know Franzi and his friends. Oschwall, maybe, but I don’t think that counts. He’s Kolnoskan, anyways.

“You want to talk,” I prompt dutifully.

“Right!” he starts. “Well, just. Are you okay?”

“Of course.”

“I mean... Are you _actually_ okay? I heard about what happened with Sofie and stuff.” He shakes his head. “I really gave her a talking to.”

“I’m sure,” I answer dryly. He certainly didn’t. And he shouldn’t have, anyways.

“But she said it doesn’t matter. I’m... I really doubt that, since Polly seemed so upset, but...”

“Polly is handling it,” I say.

He opens his mouth, before jerking his head to the side. “--Oh, uh, hi, Uwe.”

His friend stands near the station opening, a monolith against the sky-bleached, concrete landscape. Not Jon or August, but the other one. Uwe. “Hi, Franzi,” he says smoothly, a smoky baritone.

“I thought we were all meeting at the central station. I didn’t expect to see you, so soon!”

“I was in the neighborhood.”

I roll onto my heels again, teeth grinding against the soft meat of my cheek. My teeth aren’t white like Franzi’s.

Eyes turn to me. “Hello, Waldi.”

I swallow, hot sand in my throat. “Hello, Uwe.”

“Still a writer?”

“For now.”

Franzi laughs at that, shrill and tight. He might be the only person involved who knows less than me. Well, he’s only tangentially involved, but regardless. I’m in the thick of it and still know very little. It’s as I said; Polly’s handling it.

“The train’s here,” Uwe says, unbothered by Franzi’s display. “It passed me on my way over.”

“Right. Let’s go, then.” Franzi sets his shoulders back, relaxed again. Fits and spurts. He calms and frights so readily.

“Waldi?”

I bob my head, before I remember that the gesture means nothing, here. “I’m coming.”

\- - -

I washed dishes with blurred vision, eyes drooling with shame. I was apple-red and felt sick in a shivering, lost sense. I kept dropping the bowls in the sink.

“Waldi,” Polly said.

“I’m sorry about the food,” I croaked.

“It’s fine. It was really fine, please. I should have known about the spices. That’s my fault.”

“It’s not your fault.” I sniffled, feeling pathetic. There was so much mucus caught in my throat, runny and webbed over my trachea. I was a total mess, after Howie had left. Disgusting.

Polly was in damage control mode, and I felt despicable about putting her in that position. She was clearly very tired. “Then it’s nobody’s fault. It’s fine. Okay? It’s really fine. Were you happy to see Howie? I haven’t seen him in ages.”

“I was,” I mumbled. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me; he asked to see you. Howie’s always been really fond of you, you know?”

“I fucked up his favorite food.”

 _“Waldi._ It’s fine. He just wanted to see you.”

The water gulped as another bowl slipped from my fingers. My vision swam in the soapy waves.

“Why don’t we talk about something else? My work sucked. You wanna hear about that? This professor, he’s such an asshole.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

She sighed. Dead-end conversations. Abortions. Miscarriages. Dead mothers.

“I’m going to the game on Friday,” I said. I swallowed, phlegm knocking against my upper palate.

Polly didn’t say anything.

“Polly?”

I felt her move around the side, behind me. “Sure.” It wasn’t a very convincing ‘sure.’

“Um. Franzi called, and I said I’d... I said I’d ask you. So.”

She shrugged, moving her arm over the counter.

“Polly?”

She held up the bottle of allspice. That was Standard for allspice. It felt like the only word worth knowing. I knew it, now. I understood. I had it under control. I’d learned. There would never be another mistake like that. “I’ll just mark these with their translations. Then there shouldn’t be any problems. It’s no issue, see?”

“I _know it now!”_ I hissed, ripping it from her hands. It slipped from my wet fingers, plinking in the water.

She stared at me.

I flushed. “I. I’m... I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t do that again,” she said slowly.

My heart squealed in my chest, wheezing under the duress of a thousand heavy feelings. “I... I...”

“It’s fine. I forgive you.” She reached into the sink and pulled the bottle out.

“Polly.” I stopped.

She looked at me.

I felt crazy. I felt like I needed something, anything. Some form of reassurance, any form. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. My throat was too tight, the hole plugged with spit and unshed snot.

Polly didn’t push me, of course. She turned away, left me empty and hanging over the sink. I watched her place the wet glass back in the spice rack.

“Polly,” I tried again, throat failing to strangle me.

She hummed.

“Ah. I, uh. Could we, ah. Um.” I wiped my face, smearing dirty water on my temple. It dripped past my eye. It reeked of off-kilter allspice. I gestured at my chest with a trembling wrist. A pointless act. “Y-you can, uh, you know. If you, uh, if you want. You don’t have to. Of course. Or I could, um. E-- I mean, right, I shouldn’t offer. Um. Please forget that. I mean, of course, I...”

She didn’t turn around. Her hair offered me no answer.

“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling small. It was disgustingly plaintive, even to my own ears.

“Maybe you shouldn’t go to that game.”

“Polly...”

“I don’t think you’re well. This whole experience, being here, on top of everything else. It’s not been good for you.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

“My mom was wrong,” she said. “You should have stayed in Kuk.”

My throat was so tight.

Polly didn’t add anything to that. There were so many unsaid things in that statement, roaring with snapping jaws. Of course, Polly wouldn’t have visited me, if I were still in Kuk. It was obvious why she said that: She didn’t want me around. Which made sense. I was much more trouble than I was worth.

“Polly,” I said dumbly.

Her hands curled into fists on the countertop. I just wanted to see her face. Polly was the only person I had, and even if it was complicated--even if it was _awful_ \--I needed her. I needed Polly. I had no one else. Polly was the only person who looked at me. Polly was the only person who saw me. I just wanted her to turn around and look at me.

“I’m sorry!” My voice wavered and cracked like a dumb kid. I sounded absolutely insipid. “Ah, um, I’ll do anything, Polly. _Anything,_ anything you want. You know that! I always did. I-I always will. Anything, Polly, please. I won’t go to that game, I... I’ll clean the apartment and I’ll cook better, I promise, I’ll never write anything bad again, I’ll let you do whatever you want to me. Anything! Anything!”

Still, she didn’t turn. Her knuckles were white, shoulders tense. I felt lost.

“I’m sorry that I--”

“Wally, _calm down.”_

My jaw clicked shut, teeth aching.

She turned around, face unreadable. Her voice left her mouth, devoid of personality. “It’s fine. It’s been a long day, right? I think I asked too much of you. It’s been a really long day.”

“I’m fine,” I said weakly. “I’ll do anything, Polly.”

She shook her head. “You should go to bed.”

The usual script. The usual solution. “After I finish the dishes, please.”

She reached into the sink and pulled the stopper. I watched the water flee down the drain, revealing mountains of porcelain in its haste. “You can go to the game,” she said. “I’m not going to stop you.”

I swallowed. “I thought you didn’t want me to go.”

“Did I say that?”

I wasn’t sure, anymore. Maybe not.

“Maybe I said something like that,” she said. “But I don’t think I said I didn’t want you to go. You can go. I’m not going to stop you.” There was something strange in her tone, something hidden under the curl of her tongue, like an unswallowed pill.

I was too frantic to pull it apart. “Is there anything I can do for you, Polly?” I asked instead, clinging to our awful script, fingers latched onto the metal lip of the sink as the water continued to lower.

She clicked her tongue. She was very close, hovering over my shoulder. I could feel the warmth of her chest, centimeters from my arm. My heart throbbed, aching and anticipating. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” I echoed, my face warm.

“Just be careful.” She stepped away.

Polly would never touch me without permission.

That was a good thing.

I breathed, chest unconstricted. “Of course, Polly.” It sounded like she wasn’t saying something on her mind. Polly was an awful liar, but omission was another issue, entirely.

“Is there anything I can do for _you,_ Waldi?”

I blinked. “Um. No? I don’t... No.”

“Okay,” she said simply. “Go to bed after you dry the dishes.”

I heard her stockinged feet pad out of the kitchen. My hands hung limply over the sink, joints twitching. “I don’t know,” I said to no one. The draining water swallowed my voice.

\- - -

“What’re you writing about, now?” Uwe asks with a forced casualness that feels natural. His elbow hovers above his lap, fingers gripping the ceiling-mounted strap.

“Well, I was been recently in agreement for publishing,” I say. “I can’t speak for that story, sorry.”

“Are you writing anything else?”

“Um, yes. It’s a fiction about a farmer. Very simple.”

He grunts.

“It’s in reality,” I say. “My other story--the for publishing story--is very fiction-ous.”

“What makes it fictitious?” he asks.

I watch Franzi’s knee bob with the beat of the train. He’s staring out the window, lips flat. I wonder what he and Schotek really discussed that has him so tense. His angst is certainly uncharacteristic. But then again, I’ve only known him for a month. That isn’t so much time, I suppose. People thought they knew me, after all, and they knew me for much longer. “It has a monster in it. I shouldn’t say much more.”

“Like a weremachget or?”

“What’s a ‘weremachget’?”

Uwe just laughs, hushed and warm.

I shift in my seat, knees rattling with the motion of the train. Franzi’s knee knocks into my thigh. I pull my legs closer in response, just a little. “Okay. Um. Uh. It’s about a monster from the Kolnoskan stories.” I swallow, rocks in my throat. “My wife translated it. I’m not sure what she names it.”

“What’s the monster called?” he asks.

“Franzi, how far is the st...stadium from the train station?”

He turns his neck, blinking. I can hear Uwe softly laughing again. Maybe he isn’t laughing. Maybe it’s just the sound of the train, creaking under its many joints. “Just a few blocks,” he says. “We’re taking the yellow line, when we stop at the central train station. It’s three stops from there, then we walk a few blocks.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

This is the longest train ride in history. Longer than any other I’ve ever taken. Longer than the train ride to Bismaché. I feel so pathetically small, sitting between Franzi and Uwe. When I pull my legs closer, the crotch of my pants rides up, pinching me. I don’t move, though. I’ve always longed to make myself as small as possible, after all. I shouldn’t feel so uncomfortable, but I do. I’m impossible to please, I suppose.

And then it’s over. Just like that.

The train doors fling open. Franzi whistles, standing and cracking his back. As Uwe stands to follow him off the train, I pop up and discreetly adjust myself, tugging down my pant-leg in jerky motions. I should have worn something more casual, but I left all my casual clothes in Kolnosk. I would probably look weird if I wore them, anyways. I already look weird enough wearing a Kolnoskan-style coat. I’m beyond sick of being weird, at this point.

“Waldi?” Franzi calls as I hop down the steps.

“I’m here,” I confirm, stuffing my hands into my pockets. A passerby jostles my shoulder and I issue a full-body flinch in response. I wonder why public spaces have to fill me with such insurmountable levels of dread. They’re unfamiliar. Maybe it’s that simple. But things rarely are, as I keep learning to my weary disappointment. We haven’t even gotten to the game, and I’m already exhausted.

“Hey, Franzi!” A familiar voice. I have no name for the voice. Well, two names. Jon or August.

“Yo, what’s up, guys?”

Their voices swell over the cramped station. Franzi and his friends are all large in everything. Well, maybe not Uwe. Uwe stands back with me, idly fiddling with a lighter, wearing a placid expression. What he lacks in boisterousness, he makes up for in size. Uwe is incredibly tall. A pillar of a man. I go up to just over his shoulder.

“Train’s coming,” he says.

“Oh.” I glance down the platform, neck swinging. I can hear it, yes.

“Hi, Waldi,” one of Franzi’s other friends says. Jon or August. Not Uwe. Uwe is next to me.

“Ah. Hello.”

“Excited about the game?”

“Ahm. Yes, I think so. Cardinals and Wasps.”

“Yeah, though it’s not gonna be too exciting. Cardinals have been _awful_ , lately.”

“There’s always a chance,” Uwe says, a trace of amusement in his tone.

“Jon,” the other friend harps, lightly punching presumably Jon’s arm. This is August, then. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Ugh, just drop it, okay? That’s my business.”

“We’re _frie-ends!”_

Jon scowls, twisting away. “Man, what’re you, my girlfriend? Drop it.”

“Of course I’m not; I’m not a bitch.”

Uwe huffs, amused.

“Train,” I say, finding myself on the tips of my toes, legs taught and knees locked. Franzi is already waiting in front of the door.

Jon and August turn in unison. “Oh,” one says.

Uwe makes a strange noise. I look at him. He’s looking behind us, toward the crowd of people milling around near the platform. Students and families and office workers and tourists with bulky cameras. _The mass of humanity,_ I think.

“Is something wrong?” I ask.

He opens his mouth, before closing it. “Mm. No. Probably not.”

‘Probably not.’ Not especially reassuring.

Uwe plods past us, climbing onto the train. I trail at the end of our little procession, buffeted by a distracted mother and a disinterested salaryman. The last time I’d been in a busy public space without Polly was when I first came to Bismaché. I was alone, until Schotek somehow recognized me and led me to the apartment. It’s a blur, now. I don’t care to remember it.

Polly had apologized for that. She had felt very badly. Her work schedule is...difficult, I suppose. I don’t know all the details. Academia expects a lot of people. It doesn’t explain her historic absence in other areas, through the last two years, but I’m not bitter about my initial arrival. That instance is understandable. Normal people work, after all.

“Hey Waldi, here,” Franzi calls, swatting at the empty ceiling grip next to him. I dutifully take my place, standing beside him. “Man, it’s really crowded, huh? I wonder how many people on here are going to the game with us.”

“Must be some,” I say.

“Not a lot,” one of his friends says. Gray shirt. Gray shirt is Jon. “We’ve got, like, five moms with kids on here.”

“Yeah, that’s a good point,” Franzi muses.

“Children don’t go to games?” I ask. The train heaves. My forearm tenses, fingers curling.

“Well, it’s not super, you know, okay. So nah.” Franzi shrugs, his raised shoulder rolling. “It’s an adult sort of thing.”

“Ah. Okay.”

“Women don’t really ‘get’ this sort of thing, either,” Jon says. Gray shirt Jon. “It’s mostly just us guys.”

“Us guys,” I echo thoughtlessly.

Franzi just laughs. “Dude, I just remembered. Did you bring your ID card?”

I blink. “My... Ah.” I reach down, patting at my pocket. “Yes, I have my ID.”

“Isn’t it always with him? Why would you ask him that?”

“Polly often has it,” I say. “Um. My wife.”

Jon frowns, cocking his head.

“I don’t think about that stuff. Uh. At Kolnosk, we don’t carry with our ID. No one, um. No one cares.”

“Man, that thing is, like--” A word. “--to my skin. It’s stuck there.”

“Well, I just had got mine, the last year,” I point out. “So I guess I don’t think of it so much. If I should, thank you for saying.”

“Last year?” Franzi repeats.

“Yes?”

“Wait.” He holds up his hand. “So. You’re nineteen?”

“Yeah?”

He shakes his head, mouth open. Uwe looks at him, whites flashing.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“You’re young,” Uwe supplies.

“I guess so.”

“When did you get married?” Franzi blurts. His friends collectively cringe like they were yanked by the nuts. I appreciate their decency to feel embarrassed.

I glance at him. “Seventeen. Polly was eighteen.”

“Age of majority is eighteen.”

“Sorry, I don’t understand the word ‘age of majority.’ ”

“Adulthood,” he bites out. “Becoming adult.”

“Oh. It’s seventeen for marrying, in Kolnosk.”

“Oh.” He stares at me dumbly.

“Though I was betrothed young,” I say.

Gray shirt Jon snorts. “’Betrothed.’”

“There is a problem with my word?”

“No,” Franzi says. “Uh. How young?”

I open my mouth, before thinking better of it. I can read a room. Well, a train car. Franzi doesn’t sound very receptive. “It’s a very old tradition,” I say, instead. It is, after all. When I look at Franzi’s aghast face, all of my complicated emotions melt into a pool of defensiveness. What right does he have to immediately write off my experiences? Kolnosk is my home. He doesn’t know anything about how we live, there. He doesn’t know anything about what I’ve been through.

Uwe shoots him a look, lips quirking.

“It’s how my home works,” I try again. “So please, I understand if you don’t understand, yet please don’t say anything untoward.”

Franzi shakes his head. “This just gets weirder,” he mutters.

“It isn’t weird,” I say. “That’s how my home is. Please.”

“Drop it,” Uwe says to Franzi.

Franzi groans.

“We’ll talk, later.”

He shakes his head. “Nah, it’s whatever.” He clears his throat. “I didn’t realize you were such a baby, Waldi.”

I blink. “Baby?”

“Like, you’re so young!”

“I thought he was fifteen,” one friend says. August, by process of elimination.

Gray shirt Jon sheepishly agrees with him.

Franzi squawks, offended. “I wouldn’t give a kid beer! I knew he was an adult. He acts like an adult, don’t he? What’s your--” A long string of quick words escape him.

The two laugh awkwardly in response.

Uwe stares past us, scanning the train car. I don’t ask for what he’s searching. He probably won’t answer me, anyways.

The conversation had shifted, while I was distracted. I’m uninvolved now, as I prefer.

“I just think it’s unfair. She’s always bitching at me about how late I get home from work. I really can’t help it.” Gray shirt Jon.

 _You can help it for your wife,_ I think. _It’s your job to help it for your wife. Your wife runs the house and she runs the family. Your wife eats before you, walks in front of you, speaks for you. For better or worse._

But that’s not the case, here.

I hold the strap as the train rocks, knuckles creaking with the force.

“Dude, don’t even think about it. Not today, at least. We’re just gonna have a good time, today.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Sorry, I’m just so--” Words. Words I don’t care about.

“You still excited for the Cardinals, Waldi?” Franzi asks.

I look up at him. “Um. Yes. I’ve heard that they aren’t good, though.”

He shrugs, grinning. “That doesn’t mean they’ll lose, today.”

“I suppose not,” I say.

His friends are still talking. I hear the word ‘bitch.’ My palm aches around the ceiling strap, tendons popping out of my forearm. I think about Polly spitting the word at Schotek. _I’m the controlling bitch._

Franzi seems better, at least. All smiles. I swallow, turning my attention out the window.

\- - -

“Oh, wow, Waldi. You’re getting _so big!”_

I smoothed my hands over the pock-marked table, watching him warily.

He laughed, eyes squinting closed like I’d said something very funny. “Ah, sorry. I’m Polly’s dad.”

“Oh. Hi...”

He shook his head, smiling. “My name’s Jun Dienschon.”

“Hi, Dienschon.”

“You’re so cute! I’m glad Polly’s got a friend at school. She had a lot of trouble, her first year.”

“Um. Thank you.”

“I met you when you started school, last year,” he said. “Though I guess you don’t remember. That’s fine. Starting school was a stressful time, wasn’t it?”

I shrugged, eyes trailing over the tabletop. The Hochsprach family had a nice dining room. The doorways had worn, wooden molding around the edges and the table had more than enough chairs for everyone. Polly had two siblings--an older brother and a younger sister--and two parents, though she rarely talked about anyone besides Howie. I knew Howie, vaguely, through my brief stint at church choir. Not that it mattered. I had other responsibilities eating up my time now.

“You’re shy, huh?”

I chewed on the meat of my cheek, frowning.

He held up his hands, fingers curling. “No pressure. But I was wondering if I could ask a few questions, if that’s okay. Just a formality.”

“It’s hard to talk,” I admitted.

“Ohhh.” He clicked his tongue. Dienschon was much more expressive than his wife. He had warm, brown eyes, like hot chocolate or candy squares. Nene Hochsprach’s eyes were worn brown, like jagged bedrock. “No worries. You’re seeing that nice woman that Nene set you up with, right?”

“Uh. Yes.”

“That’s good.” He bobbed his head. “Nice. Is that helping?”

“Um. I guess.”

“Well, hang in there. I think it only takes a month or two. She’s a miracle worker. Howie actually went to her, you know, when he was a little younger than you.”

I blinked. Howie had always seemed so confident to me. He was a lot bigger than me and he seemed to always know what he was doing or where he was going. I couldn’t imagine Howie having any kind of speech impediment.

“Anyways, I just wanted to issue a few formal questions, to welcome you to the family and everything. I’m sure Nene and your father have handled most of it, haha.”

“Um.” I furrowed my brow, wracking my brain to assign some meaning to his words. I was empty-handed. My face heated up with embarrassment. It always happened so quickly; I found myself mum.

“You seem like you’ve got a good temperament,” he continued, smiling his easy smile. “A lot like Howie. I’m sure you two would be very good friends.”

I was nothing like Howie. Howie knew how to talk to people. I didn’t.

“How tall is your dad, Waldi? Do you know?”

I blinked. My throat was so tight. The lady said that was because my tendons tightened up when I was nervous. That’s why my voice had such a dreadful tremor. That’s why my voice got so high. That’s why I couldn’t speak.

“Any idea?” he prompted.

“No,” I warbled.

He hummed. “Okay. Maybe five-seven? Five-eight. I think. I guess I’ll just have to ask him.”

Asking my father anything was an exercise in futility. Dienschon was better off just walking to our house with a measuring stick and conducting his own field research.

“Well, you’re getting pretty big now, huh? I’ll tell Nene you’ll be five-seven, five-eight, when you grow up, just like your dad.”

I wasn’t big. I was very small. Pathetically small. I was half the size of Howie, and Howie was only five years older than me. Howie wasn’t a big boy by any stretch, either. And I wouldn’t grow past five-foot-four, not that I or Dienschon knew this, at the time.

“Hey, can I get you anything, Waldi? I made some brown bread, this morning. Sorry, my manners are really failing me. I should be setting a better example!”

I shook my head, biting my lip. Brown bread sounded good, but I had no appetite. I rarely had any appetite, these days. The past two years had felt like a long nightmare at times. My father was difficult. I felt like I was going crazy whenever I was home. The only time I felt okay was when I was with Polly and it only provided an uneasy peace. Polly was so nice to me. Everyone in her family was. It was deeply troubling.

“Oh, okay. Just let me know if you want some.” He wrote something on the sheet of paper in front of him. “You’re eight, right? A green-leaf birthday? Just wanna confirm.”

“Yes.”

He nodded, sticking out his tongue as he wrote down something else.

Brown bread sounded great. Things were difficult at home. When I came home, last month, half of the goats were dead. I didn’t know why. My father was in his room, the door half-ajar, lying in bed with empty eyes trained on the ceiling. I hated going home. I hated going home so much. I was so hungry.

“Jun?”

His head shot up, smiling with bright eyes. “Yes, Nene?”

The Hochsprach matriarch stood behind me, at the opening to the kitchen. I craned my neck to glance at her before whipping my head back to the tabletop. “I’d like some coffee.”

Dienschon stood up, pushing in his chair. “Oh, of course, Nene. I’ll get that for you, right now.”

He made it seem so effortless. Polly’s father was a mystical creature, to me, a forest fae. He was effusive, polite, deferential. Kind without overstepping his bounds, submissive without acting like a simpering mess. The kind of man I would never grow up to be.

Nene Hochsprach approached the table, turning her eyes to me, face growing cold. “Hello, Waldi. Your father is well?”

“Um.” I swallowed, throat dry and cracked. I didn’t actually know the answer to that question. “Yes...”

She nodded, pulling out a chair and sitting down. I could hear Dienschon humming in the kitchen. It was such an easy picture and entirely foreign to me. My father didn’t get coffee for my mother. I had no mother. “Polly should be home from tutoring in a short while. You’re free to stay.”

“Polly’s very lucky!” Dienschon called from the kitchen. “He’s quite the catch.”

Nene grunted, lips pulling back. There was a troubled look in her eyes, but I couldn’t infer its origin.

In spite of her expression, I found myself gradually settling into a sense of ease. The room was cosseted by the aroma of coffee and baked bread. Polly would be home, soon. We would hang out around the swimming hole behind her house, where she would probably tell me about all the things she learned in tutoring. Vocabulary and grammar rules that would dissolve on the back of my tongue, forgotten before they could be absorbed. Dienschon’s questions were only a faint memory, itching at the back of my brain. He came out of the kitchen in short order, sliding a cup in front of Hochsprach. I had never encountered domesticity before. It felt so easy. It felt right.

 _So this is marriage,_ I thought. _Oh. That’s nice._

And it was. It was very nice. It was comfortable. I had never felt so comfortable in my life. Dienschon smiled at me, face paternal and gentle. I smiled back.

\- - -

“Now don’t lose your ticket. That’s what gets you into the stadium,” Franzi says, slapping my back. I jolt forward with the motion. “The big sports room. Stadium. Arena. We show our IDs and our tickets and then we’re inside.”

“Of course.” My voice is swallowed by the din around us, hundreds of people milling around the entrance. My fingers are white around the slip of paper. It can easily blow away if I don’t pay attention. That would be awful.

Stadium. Stadium. Polly had repeated it with me forty times before I left the apartment. _Stadium,_ she’d said. _You don’t need to enunciate it yourself when you’re with them; I know it’s a weird word. But you’ve got to recognize it, considering, you know. Well, you’ll be in one._

The word thrums in my blood, so loud I might puke decibels onto my shoes if given the slightest provocation.

 _And you should talk to them,_ Polly had added, in her endless list of social instructions. Proper sitting postures and eye contact opportunities. _At least Franzi and one of his friends. That’s fair, right?_

Right. Fair. Fairness means nothing to me, but she had a point. I’ve met that quota. 

She’d straightened my coat collar for me before I left. I remember holding my breath. I think of the other night, standing over the sink with childish tears over a ruined dinner. It’s an embarrassing thought. It’s for the best that Polly and I haven’t acknowledged it.

Maybe. There’s so much we don’t acknowledge. All of our unhappy experiences lie orphaned in our memories.

I’ve never seen so many people crammed together like this. All shuffling into barely coherent lines, loosely fingering their tickets. It reminds me of the wedding, except the wedding was in an old cabin, where the pagan ministers used to hold practice back when we had pagan ministers, and there were only ten people crammed together in the space. The air was so stuffy and I can still smell it, dust and pinewood and the traces of chamomile incense that we’d had to huff for forty minutes while we got ready. Here, the air is stuffy in a different way, heavy with the body odors of a thousand people, the greasy overtones of food carts floating over our heads.

A shiver slithers down my spine. I know better than to acknowledge it.

“Here we are,” Franzi says, hand passing over my shoulder in a lazy gesture. It fails to achieve contact. “Just hold out your ID and ticket.”

I hum, pulling out my ID. The ticket is tightly clenched in my other hand. I think about crumpled Kolchens in my pocket. Useless currency. Pointless kindnesses.

A man tugs both from my hands, giving them a quick look, before shoving them back. ”Thank you,” I say as I’m shoved forward. It’s a chaotic scene. People stepping on each other and elbowing. There’s no flow to the traffic at all. I stand, dumbfounded in the cacophony.

“Waldi.” Uwe gestures. I’m glad he’s tall. He’s easy to see, a bald head rising above the crowd. I think of fumbling around in the Bismaché central train station, fingers tight around my suitcase as Sofie Schotek watched me with sharp eyes. I wonder how she recognized me, despite never meeting me before that moment. Maybe I just have that sense about me, the way a lion can hone in on a limping gazelle.

“Sorry.” I shuffle toward him. I feel so tiny, knocked around by people’s shoulders and elbows.

He grunts, walking slowly as I reach his side. “We’re in section five. Just follow me. I think Jon and August are getting con... Food.”

“Okay.”

“People without tickets shouldn’t be able to get into the stadium, before the game starts,” he says.

“Um. Okay?”

He shrugs.

“Is something wrong, U...Uwe?”

“No,” he says simply. “Here’s the entrance. Come on.”

We enter a tunnel and return outside. I stand dumbly for a moment, blinking at the light, before I take in the sight laid out before me.

Benches. Thousands of benches, affixed to stairs. Like pews in a church, except staggered. Just like pews in a church. And a green field, at the bottom. _That’s the game field,_ Polly had told me, pointing at a grainy photograph in the newspaper. _Okay. You see the pillars on each end? Those are the goal pillars. They call them posts. The middle one is worth the most points. The ball has to..._

Has to... Well, I don’t really remember, anymore. This stadium is enormous. The benches are situated like pews in a church. And there are so many people. The wind brushes against my face, too-warm and heavy. My stomach heaves, uneasy.

“Waldi?” Uwe.

I swallow, throat tight. I reach up without thinking, digging my knuckles into the taut tendons. I catch Uwe’s face, his arched brow. “Franzi...” I try again, raising my voice over the murmuring din surrounding us. “Franzi said we have some of the good seats.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Come on.” He starts down the steps, picking his way through the benches and people.

For a dizzying second, Uwe reminds me of my father in certain ways. Snatches of ancient, fragmented memories. The way he used to say things so simply, so steadily, back when he spoke. Uwe looks nothing like my father, though. My father was milk-white, with patchy black hair and gray eyes. Uwe is browner than maple bark and bald, with a flat, easy face. Actually, Uwe is nothing like my father at all.

Comforted, I follow him down the steps.

Franzi waves, grinning. “Are they good seats? I told you!”

“They are good,” I reply. “Ah. I think.”

“They’re _awesome,_ ” Franzi says. “Sit next to me, Waldi!”

I fold onto the bench, next to him. Uwe takes a seat next to me, buffering me from Jon and August, who are again complaining about Jon’s girlfriend.

“She’s a total bitch,” Jon moans.

I can hear my blood in my ears. I swallow, trying not to choke. I can’t stop my eyes from scanning the area, seeking out every woman in sight, searching for their judging eyes. They are few in number, surrounded by throngs of men. No one is looking at us. Some animal part of my brain expects to see Polly and her mother ahead of us, sitting stiffly on the cramped church pew with dour faces.

The stadium is loud with a multitude of voices and the things said by Franzi’s friends do not stand out at all.

Ichma would surely laugh at me, if she were to find me like this. _Why are you always so nervous, huh? I really don’t get it, Wally. --Hey, do you know why the sky’s blue? I dunno, I just thought of it._

I don’t know why the sky is blue, no. I don’t know why grass is green, either. I don’t know why people speak so loudly. I don’t know why I’m so much smaller than everyone else.

I don’t know very much.

Hardly anything.

Well, maybe some of the essentials. But it’s difficult, for me, to identify them. I have very little confidence in myself. My shyness is a killing blow in these situations. Fear obliterates the mind. Fear kills the brain dead. The benches are rather uncomfortable, just like those awful church pews. Polly and her mother, sitting in the front row. Hochsprach’s eyes, glittering and judgmental, colored like the sheer cliffs off the edge of Mount Echmi, while Polly stared at the floor.

I feel sick; my heart seizes up the way a deer freezes before a flashlight.

Why am I like this?

I scan the crowd, eyes catching on every inconsistency. The mass of humanity. They are somewhat ghoulish, I find.

I push my shoulders back, just like Polly showed me, my chin level. I feel like an imperious emperor on this wooden bench. I swallow, taking long breaths, opening the airways. Franzi and his friends sit around me with open postures. My nerves want to fold my body up, to shield me from their waving limbs. They’re larger than me and it’s easier for them to take up space. Most men are. Some women are larger than me. Polly and I are the same size, but I feel small and tense when I’m beside her, my skin buzzing.

I like women Polly’s size. I like women who look like Polly. None of these women in these stands look like Polly. They all stare ahead blankly at the field, curled in on themselves with pursed lips. They don’t look like Polly at all. Polly is pretty. She’s my type. Maybe I was hopeless from the start; Polly’s one of the only woman to whom I ever had exposure, after all. I’m not sure if I’m lucky or deeply unfortunate. I don’t feel good about my strangled emotions regarding Polly. I’ve always preferred simplicity in all things, as unobtainable as that has always been.

I hate that when I look at other women, my brain immediately starts listing all the ways they aren’t Polly.

Uwe’s elbow knocks into me and I flinch.

“Sorry,” he says.

“It’s fine,” I reply.

“You seem uncomfortable,” he says.

“I’m fine,” I reply.

He hums, unconvinced. I don’t blame him. I’m a poor actor. I can’t deny that even he’s part of my discomfort; I once wrote a story about an Uwe. I prefer not to associate that, though. Fiction is fiction and reality is reality. They are separate. The Uwe in my story was a hunter (of sorts), and he-- Well. It isn’t important. It’s fiction.

“This is very new for you, yes?”

“Yes.” I smooth my hands over my lap. I wish I brought more casual pants to Bismaché. Of course, I wore my pants with the least crotch room, today. I’m an idiot. It’s a stupid concern to fixate on, with everything else going on. It’s the only thing I want to fixate on. It’s better than the pews.

“It’s fun,” he says. “You’ll have a good time. Everyone does.”

My eyes catch on the sparse women with their unreadable expressions. “Fun,” I echo.

“They really don’t have anything like this in Kolnosk?”

“I don’t know,” I confess.

“You ask so many questions,” Franzi laughs. “What are you, an--” A word.

Uwe huffs. “Just curious.”

“Curious is fine,” I say. “Ask whatever you may like.”

“The game’s starting,” Franzi says, nudging my shoulder.

I turn my attention forward, only to find the back of a man’s head eclipsing my view. “Um...”

Franzi isn’t paying me any mind. I tug on my pants, fidgeting. This is unfortunate. There’s no way I’ll be able to see the game without standing up. No one else is standing up, so I certainly can’t stand up.

I thought these were supposed to be good seats.

Well, maybe they are if one is a reasonable height.

I slouch, sulking inwardly. A speaker rumbles gibberish over the field, voice crackling and slurred. People all around us start hollering and clapping. It’s dreadfully loud. Have I ever heard something so loud? No. No, I don’t think so.

I’m at a sporting event. I’m with Franzi and his friends. I should be having fun, but I’m certainly not. Uwe is wrong. This is more Ichma’s speed. She would love something like this. Ichma should be here, instead of me.

Around all these large, yelling ~~monsters~~ men? No. Never mind. My lip curls. _You said that like the guys around here would say it._ My face settles, insides cold.

I swallow back bile, squinting at the head in front of me. _You’re so lucky you’re getting married,_ Ichma had said to me once, muffled by the meat of her forearm as she rested her face on the dining table. _At least someone_ wants _you. I can’t find any cute boys at school._ An errant memory. Just like all memories. Errant. It isn’t even relevant. _You don’t seem too excited to get married._

Who cares what I want? It’s irrelevant. I don’t want anything. It’s so loud here. I can’t see anything. I can see the pews, crooked and cramped. No, I can’t see anything. I’m too small. People used to compliment me for being small. The girls in school, they would smile at me when I was an upperclassman. _You’re so quiet, Waldi!_ A compliment, not an insult, not an issue. Polly would always rant about Trilla Regmonsch, who used to slip me snacks during lunch period.

Something about that bothers me. An itch in the back of my brain, nibbling at my brain stem. That meant something. Polly ranted about Trilla Regmonsch for a reason. Polly always ranted about any girl who offered favors for me. My vision wavers, lips tugging down in thought.

“Can you see?” Uwe asks.

I blink, looking up at him. “Uh.” 

“Maybe you could sit on my shoulders.”

I stare. My brain slowly clicks. Oh. He’s joking. “Ha ha,” I dutifully reply.

“It won’t be an exciting game,” he says. “The Wasps will win.”

If that’s consolation, I don’t feel it. The stadium is loud and my brain is stuffed with thoughts, like an overflowing PO box.

“I don’t even like these games,” he continues, “in truth.”

That’s strange. Franzi loves sports, after all. I wonder what Uwe gets out of hanging out with him, if that’s the case.

“How have you liked Bismaché?”

“Huh?”

“You haven’t been here for long,” he says. “Is that right?”

“Um. Shortly more than the month.”

“How do you feel about it?”

I try to think of an appropriately neutral stance, without lying. “It’s different,” I settle on.

Uwe makes an unintelligible sound. It’s quickly drowned out by a new batch of cheering. I wish I could see what’s happening.

 _“Can_ I sit on your shoulders?” I ask.

“You’re too big,” he says.

I tug on my pants, frowning. Well, obviously. If I were to perch on Uwe’s shoulders, I’d surely block more than one unfortunate person’s view. Besides, I’d have to actually make physical contact of my own volition with another human in order to achieve such a position, which is far more daunting.

Touch is complicated in Kolnoskan culture. People here have no regard for it. In Bismaché, touch is cheap.

“Now what are you thinking about?” Uwe asks.

“Nothing,” I respond, staring ahead. The man in front of me has thinning hair at the crown of his head. I wonder if I’ll ever go bald.

“When does your next story come out?”

“Um.” I clear my throat. Someone behind us screams, voice raw and animalistic. I jolt, gritting my teeth. My ears ring. “I-in. In this month. Issue.”

“Where, again?”

“Where?”

“Where will it be?”

“University Journal.”

More shouting. My bones ache with the noise. I feel nauseous. My vision swims. Why couldn’t someone I know have come? Howie’s a man, so he should have been fine. If Howie were here, this would be less awful, probably. Howie would hate this almost as much as I do. I wish I were suffering with someone.

Funny, that I isolate myself so much, then.

Well. That’s different. That’s protection. It’s different. Maybe not. I don’t know. My teeth grind into the inside of my cheek. The Polly issue is difficult. Maybe I’m complicating everything more than it warrants, but I can’t really help it. I wish I didn’t. If Polly were here, she’d be vigilant. She wouldn’t even let us stay the whole game, probably. Polly really does try, doesn’t she? Polly is good to me, even when I don’t deserve it. She gave me my own room. Polly cares, but she never visited me in Kolnosk. I wonder why she never visited. I wonder why she never told me the truth. She had to have known. Just looking in her eyes, I know she knew. She didn’t look at me, in that church. She wouldn’t meet my gaze.

I can’t even remember what happened after that, but I remember her eyes.

\- - -

“Well, I’m here.” I flopped my arms against my sides, feeling the give in the loose fabric of my sleeves. It had been a cold morning, as was common in the middle of the green months. The weather tended to be schizophrenic, but I still couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of dread at the chill, further compounded by the sight of my own breath.

Urmacht clicked his tongue, looking me up and down. “Congrats, congrats.”

Howie didn’t say anything. He stood over a metal tub, face unreadable.

I cleared my throat. “Um. Thanks for coming.”

“Oh, of course,” Urmacht said. “Don’t worry about it. I went through it, too, after all. It’s not nearly as scary as it seems.”

Howie didn’t say anything.

“Ah. Thanks for the encouragement.”

Urmacht shrugged. “We’ll get you all spruced up, so just let us handle it. You really need to relax, okay?”

I swallowed, throat trying to strangle me. “Okay.”

He nodded at the metal tub. “You wanna strip and get in?”

I blinked.

Howie cleared his throat. “You have to take a bath.”

“Oh. Um. Okay.” I reached for the edge of my shirt, fingers stiff as rusted hinges. If I had allowed myself to think about it, I would have considered that I’d never been naked in front of other people before, not that I could remember. I didn’t allow myself to think about this, though. This wasn’t a place where I could afford complicated thoughts.

“Just let us take care of everything,” Urmacht said, leaning against the end table. “This room is musty as hell, but it’s nothing a little incense and open windows won’t solve.”

“The whole church is musty as hell,” Howie muttered.

“Well, it was built back when shamans or whatever had blood sacrifices. It’s ancient. I think it can afford to be musty, huh?”

“I don’t think it’s ancient,” I murmured, fingering the hem of my shirt. “It’s made out of logs.”

Urmacht nodded at me. “Cheer up, Hoffenthal. You’ve got the best grooms’ party money can’t buy.”

A huff of air left me, similar to a laugh. It wasn’t a laugh. I was grateful, all the same, that I had people around me. I wasn’t sure what I would have done if I’d had to do this alone. “Waldi’s fine,” I said. “Um. Since my dad is Hoffenthal. I don’t want things to get confused...”

“Right.” He patted at the front of his pants, fingering his wallet. “We’re all casual here, aren’t we? Let’s think of it like we’re temporary brothers.” He was trying to put me at ease. I appreciated the vain effort.

I shrugged, lifting my arms. My shirt came with them, until it slid over my head. “Um. Right. Sorry if I’m awkward. I’m just... I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

“It’s fine,” he said. “Really. I was nervous, too, when I got married.”

I swallowed thickly, trying to will down the bile in my throat. I didn’t think about it. It was only a physical sensation with no cause attached.

“It’s a happy day, right?” Urmacht waved his arm in a lazy gesture. “You should be excited, right?”

“Right,” I answered blankly.

The creaking walls of the church backroom couldn’t restrain the outside chill. I watched Urmacht walk toward the stairwell, an idle expression on his face. I twisted my shirt between my hands, fabric worn soft and threadbare. The air was stuffy, like this room hadn’t been opened in months. I wondered if the main hall was as cloying. I supposed I would find out, soon enough.

“You gonna fill the bucket at the faucet?” Urmacht asked.

Howie shrugged noncommittally, turning toward us. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll. I’ll do that. Just get in the tub, Waldi.” His eyes were trained on the floor.

The whole time, Howie wouldn’t look at me.

\- - -

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

Uwe hums.

I wish Polly were here. I want to cover my ears. I wish Polly were holding my shoulder, right now. Howie, even. My brother-in-law. That’s a brother twice removed, isn’t it? (My bare ass frozen to a metal tub, water over my veins, choking on the scent of tea leaves, Howie’s guilty breaths rustling my plastered hair, a gaping monster peering through the frosted window, the pale eyes that always met mine.) I wouldn’t know. I have no brothers. I have no sisters. I wouldn’t know, I. I’m.

Anyways, I want Polly here. I want someone here. Women and men hold each other, in Kolnosk. All the simple things I’ve known I should want, but never had. The advertisements suggest it’s different in Bismaché. Maybe I should ask Franzi. Maybe I should ask Uwe. Maybe I should stand up and scream my questions into the shouting faces around me. Maybe I should holler until my lungs deflate and my voice gives out for good.

“You’re very pale.”

“I’m fine.”

Uwe hums.

Why do I want Polly here? Because Polly protects me. Except she’s never _actually_ protected me; I just wish she would. Dream Polly isn’t Real Polly. They possess very little in common. Dream Polly would cup my face, fingers like horse-blinders on either side of me. Real Polly would... I don’t know. Real Polly is too disgusted to touch me.

No. Something else. Some other reason. Trilla Regmonsch. Something I can’t understand. I’m getting it all mixed up. My emotions are transient and they aren’t reality. Projection is troublesome. Howie knew, didn’t he? He knew. Of course he knew. Howie knew and that’s why he couldn’t look at me. That’s why he stood behind me as I crawled into that metal tub, ready to be primped and polished for purchase. Howie was sorry. Howie _felt_ sorry for me. My mouth has a strange feel to it, like a film over my gums. I’m salivating. I sense a sickness gathering in my molars.

What’s happening, right now? I’m at a big sports room. In Kolnoskan, the word is _Rémirien._ In Kuk, people usually call it _Rériru._ In Standard, it’s...something. Who cares? I can’t even see the game.

The benches really are like pews. They suck.

“What genre is your story?”

My teeth grind into the meat of my mouth. “Folktale.”

“It’s a fairytale, then?”

I taste blood.

\- - -

We sat behind her parents’ nice house by the swimming hole, picking ticks off our knees and flicking them into the brown water. It was simple, quiet companionship. These were the slow hours that I treasured with her. The slow hours that never really existed, in retrospect.

Such moments were always fragile, even then.

“I want to see a real pràda,” Polly announced to the autumn air, her almond eyes glittering.

I grimaced. _“Why?”_

She shrugged. “Dunno.” She toed a rock into the water, watching it sink. “I like excitement. Don’t you?”

“No.”

“Right. I forgot. You’re boring.”

I frowned, watching her shoe prod at the clay.

“No defense for yourself?”

I shrugged.

Polly grunted. “You should say something like ‘I’m not boring’ or ‘ _You’re_ friends with me’ or something. You know. A retort.”

“Okay.”

I felt her shift beside me, retracting her legs. “Tourists go monster-hunting in the woods, you know. My brother told me that some tourists asked him to give them a guided tour. You know what he said?”

“Knowing Howie, he refused.”

“Yeah! He refused! He’s almost more boring than you.” She paused, but I didn’t rise to the bait. “Well. I would have given them that tour.”

“And seen a pràda?”

“Psh, nah. You think the pràda would come out for tourists?”

I leaned forward, watching little fish dart in and out of sunbeams. “More meat. I suppose it would.”

“Mm. I don’t think so. All it does is hang out in the woods.”

“I think it goes other places,” I murmured. “I’ve seen it other places.” Plenty of other places. Mostly outside windows. Mostly in the warped reflections of glass. Sunken eyes, haunted jaws. Pale as a colony of maggots, fingers twitching like wounded spider legs.

She hummed. “Either way, it’s so shy! ...I think. It’s shy in some of the stories.”

“I think it’s just antisocial.”

“Maybe.”

“Or maybe just disliked,” I corrected myself, staring at the muddy water, the same color as Polly’s eyes.

 _“I_ don’t dislike it.”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” I said.

“Just because you saw the thing at church?” She yawned, extending her tongue. I watched it wriggle in the cool air, a pink slug. “I don’t think you really did. Is that why you quit choir?”

I didn’t respond. It wasn’t the only reason.

“It eats everything,” she said. “It takes and takes without any consideration. So that’s probably why almost nobody likes it.”

“A parasite,” I murmured.

She glanced at me. “I wouldn’t say a parasite, necessarily. I think it just doesn’t know any better.”

“Doesn’t know any better,” I echoed.

“Sure. You ever seen a pràda in school?”

“No.”

“Who’s to say it ever had a mom or a dad? My mom had to stop me from sticking all sorts of things in my mouth, as a baby. Maybe it just never learned.”

“Polly,” I said before I could stop myself, “it _eats people.”_

She snorted. “Only sometimes.”

I stared at her. Polly had an oddly cavalier approach to most things. We were opposites in that regard. We were opposites in many regards. She was never cruel; she only failed to understand me. It still hurt, though. Thoughtlessness hurt.

“Eating that much is certainly psychological,” she said brightly, eyes scrunching with her wide smile. She cocked her head. “I think it’s just lonely.”

\- - -

The stadium is loud, reverberating with thousands of voices. I feel like I’m suffocating in the din.

Uwe clears his throat. “You must catch--” Some words. “--being a Kolnoskan writer, here.”

“I don’t understand what you said. I’m sorry.”

“You must see some trouble, as a Kolnoskan writer in Bismaché.”

I blink. Blood swells over my molars, sharp and rusty. “Not really. Ah, my wife handles everything, however.”

“Right.” He nods, leaning back on the bench. “Franzi says you don’t get out much.”

“I don’t.”

“She must deal with all the legal paperwork, too, then.”

“Um... Yes.”

He says a long string of words. I catch ‘better’ in the mix.

I parrot it back. “I don’t know what that is.”

“A government thing,” he says. “Better Entertainment.”

“Oh.” I stare at the body ahead of me, at its thinning hair. He meant ‘bureau.’ I file it away accordingly. ‘Bureau,’ next to ‘stadium.’ _Rériru._ “Oh, I understand. Bureau of the Better Entertainment. Ah. Yes. That’s it. I don’t know a lot about them. I’m not inside of politics.”

He offers a blithe smile. “I wouldn’t really consider that ‘politics.’ It’s more like ‘law.’”

“Well. I’m not inside of law, then, I suppose.”

“Strange that you’re friends with Sofie. She’s very involved with that stuff.”

“Schotek is my wife’s friend,” I correct lightly. My mouth aches. “My wife teaches her Kolnoskan.”

He arches a brow, lips quirking. “I see. ...Sorry, what’s your wife’s name, again?”

I frown. “Polly Hochsprach.”

“Polly Hochsprach.” His tongue curls around her name. “And she’s your translator?”

“She is the best,” I say. “I trust no one else with translation.”

“That makes sense. She must understand you better than anyone else, right?”

 _She probably does,_ I think with no small amount of misery. No one understands me. Not even I care to try.

“Well,” Uwe says. “There probably aren’t many Kolnoskan translators around here, anyways.”

“I don’t know. Probably not. Ah, I write within a dialect that’s called Kukisch. So there are probably even less people who can able to translate this.”

“How different is that from Kolnoskan?”

I can see occasional slivers of the field, framed between wagging shoulders. Not for the first time since coming to Bismaché, I wish I weren’t so short. I feel despicable and hideous. I only ever sat in those church pews during my brief stint in church choir. I can viscerally remember looking at everyone else crammed into them as a newly-seventeen-year-old, not a smile in the room. “Uh. It’s just the vocabulary and some other things. We understand the other fine.”

Uwe hums.

I blink, eyes stinging. I’m sweating. Why am I sweating? Why am I here? Why is it so loud?

“You’re very pale,” he notes.

“Maybe I’m just like that,” I say. Blood dribbles past my lower lip. I lick it up, grimacing. There’s a classic Kolnoskan cuisine, veal blood soup. I always hated it.

Uwe’s eyes slide over me. He says nothing.

It’s so loud. My brain is leaking out of my nose. I sniffle, gagging. There are monsters in this room. Monsters in the pews. So many pews. So many monsters with mouths wider and emptier than the sky. I’ve never been around so many monsters at once. I’ve never been around so many screaming banshees. A wedding with ten people. It had felt like a crowd. Now I live in a concrete jungle with stains for company, light bulb replacements, doors that don’t lock, a wife that I can’t reach out and touch. _We were friends._

\- - -

“I can’t be naked _at_ the wedding,” I chattered through the bucket of cold water upturned on my head. “Th-that’s so bad!”

“That’s just how it is,” Urmacht said, watching from the stairwell. “It’s really not that bad.”

“I don’t even know who she is!” I hissed.

He hummed, his lips tugging downward. “Really, don’t worry about it. I wouldn’t. It doesn’t help anything.”

“I know! I...haven’t, but this is some first introduction, don’t you think? Wh-what if I, ah, what if something happens because I’m so nervous? I mean, something, you know, really embarrassing, you know what what I mean, right, with me, m-my body, that is, and--”

“It won’t,” Howie intoned, refilling the bucket. “You’ll be fine. Focus on keeping calm. Just sit where they tell you to sit and close your eyes if you have to.”

“The whole time?”

He shrugged. “Why not?”

“Isn’t that a myth, anyways?” Urmacht muttered.

“No idea.”

“Do you guys know whom I’m marrying?” I asked.

“No,” Urmacht said.

“Yes,” Howie said, after a moment.

I blinked, reaching up to swipe water from my brow. He upturned another bucket, drowning me and raising hackles all along my spine. “Who is it?”

Howie didn’t say anything.

The air was thin with strained companionship. Urmacht coughed into his neckerchief, grimacing. I reached up absently, rubbing along my shivering clavicle. I wondered who it was, not for the first time. Not for the hundredth time. A million women marched across my mind, all candidates. I didn’t want any of them. I didn’t want a single one.

“Your hair’s knotted,” Howie mumbled.

“It’s too short to be knotted.”

“It’s knotted on top.”

“Oh.” I stared ahead at the stairwell. My eyes caught on the edge of Urmacht’s boot, the steel-toe coated in mud.

A comb insinuated itself into the right side of my vision. “Here.”

I grasped it awkwardly, fingers trembling and uncoordinated. Howie was right. It was knotted, right at the top of the back. My scalp blossomed, vines of pain crawling down my neck and around my jaw. Three sharp tugs and it was loose. The comb came back with wispy strands in its maw. I picked at them idly. I should have just shaved my head for this. Would that have been symbolic? Maybe. It had some real potential, but maybe it was an overdone trope.

Howie plucked the comb from my hand. I heard it clatter on a table. “More water,” he warned.

“Okay. Thanks.” I wasn’t thankful. He dumped it on me, water snaking down my spine and pooling around my thighs. My skin was bright red around my neck with the chill, nipples pebbled and veins straining. I took a gulp of air, stuffy and weak. My ass hurt. The tin tub they’d placed me in was less comfortable than just sitting on the floor. I wrapped my clammy arms around my legs, pulling them flush with my chest.

Howie knocked the bucket against my shoulder gently. “You gotta sit up straight.”

I leaned back, lowering my legs into the miserable puddle.

“This was probably my least favorite part,” Urmacht said, “when I got married.”

“It sucks,” I agreed, hands on my knees, feeling the water slosh against my knuckles.

Howie ran the faucet again. “Yeah. No thanks.”

Urmacht gestured at him. “It’ll happen to you, someday, too.”

“Like I said: No thanks.” Water pelted the bucket, sounding like bullets on a tin roof.

“Who’s marrying me?”

Howie grunted, emptying the bucket on me. My shoulders jumped, bones clacking.

“Howie,” I whispered.

“Waldi.” There was a strange emotion in his voice. It settled like cement into my bloodstream.

“You’ll find out soon enough, anyways,” Urmacht said. “What’s it matter?”

“I guess it doesn’t.” I wiped water out of my eyes. “But I don’t want to be naked.”

“That’s how it’s always been. No one there will think anything of it.” He pulled his wallet out of his pocket, idly flipping it open and shut. “And you won’t pop a panic boner, so don’t ask again.”

I groaned. How could he know? Maybe that’s what the cold water was for? My whole body felt shrunken and shriveled into itself. My skin was tight, like latex over my muscles.

“Can you get the incense started?” Howie asked distractedly, filling the bucket again.

Urmacht sniffled. “Where’s the sticks?”

“By the front entrance, on the table. Matches should be right next to them.”

He stood up, stretching. “Alright. Hope you’re excited to smell like birch and cedar, Waldi.”

“Oh. Just thrilled,” I drawled, my pulse hiccuping.

As he disappeared out of the door, I felt anxious. I didn’t know Urmacht that well--he was as close to a neighbor as I had, and that was about it--but in this moment, I felt a childish dependency on him and Howie. I was very lost. I didn’t feel much beyond that. I didn’t feel much that I was willing to interrogate. This wasn’t the time. It would never be the time.

“Waldi.” Howie spoke with hesitation.

I twisted, looking up at him. He held the bucket between his hands, a lost look on his face. “Howie?”

“You don’t know who you’re marrying,” he said.

“No. You know, though?”

“I do,” he confirmed, his jaw setting.

“But you won’t tell me.”

He opened his mouth, but closed it.

“It’s okay.” I turned back around, my stomach lonesome and bottomless like the void of the night sky. “I’m sure there’s a reason you won’t tell me. And Urmacht’s right--it doesn’t really matter. Whatever happens, happens.”

Howie sighed deeply. The bucket knocked against the tub as he set it down.

“Howie?”

“Is it okay if I touch you?” he asked, voice weary.

I paused, mouth creaking open. It was such an insane thing to request. I had to replay it in my mind, in order to fully register what he had said.

Touch was complicated in Kolnoskan culture. Maybe it was complicated everywhere. I wouldn’t have known. Howie was a Hochsprach, and we weren’t related, so I wasn’t sure if it was okay to touch him. Howie wasn’t my brother, or my father, or my...anything, really.

\--Well, he’d be touching me, not the other way around. That was okay, right? If it was someone more important who made the decision? It had to be, maybe, possibly.

I licked my lips, throat tightening for a second. I swallowed. “Ah. Yes? If that’s allowed. I don’t know if that’s allowed. I mean. --Howie, you shouldn’t feel obligated to ever touch me; I really can do anything that needs to be done myself, I really can.”

“It’s not like that.” There was a small tremor to the undercurrent of his voice, like the minute shifting of tectonic plates, an earthquake barely felt.

“Okay.” I nodded. “You can touch me, Howie. Sure.”

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. Okay.”

I hummed, a false confidence, his fingers began to card through my hair. They were jerky and cold, like shivering centipedes. It was a strange sensation. I felt small and solid under his hand.

“I’ll shampoo your hair,” he said, throat thick.

The smell oozed from the bottle, sharp and fresh, like pine needles and cold cucumbers. Howie’s palm was almost warm over the crown of my head, sticky and heavy as it started a lather. My arms were shaking. I clamped my hands around my folded ankles.

Urmacht shouldered his way back into the room, stopping before the stairs. “Why are you touching him?”

Howie mumbled something unintelligible.

He shook his head, eyes flicking to me. I shrugged to the best of my ability. He cleared his throat. “...Whatever. I guess. I won’t tell. I got your smell sticks. Want me to light them up now?”

“Now works,” I said. “It’s soon, right?”

He glanced at the wall behind me. “Two hours, yeah. Yeah, I’ll get these going. Guess we’ll _all_ smell get to like a bunch of trees.”

“Fantastic.”

“And chamomile,” Howie said.

“Chamomile,” I repeated. “Why chamomile?”

Urmacht fumbled with the first incense holder. “Bride’s request.”

“Ah. That’s...weird.” I thought about chamomile tea and chamomile soda, the chamomile flowers Polly and I would pluck from the fields and stick in our mouths.

He shrugged. “Women are weird. Who cares?”

Howie’s fingers rubbed against the base of my skull. My eyelids fluttered. I couldn’t remember anyone ever touching my hair before, I realized. Not even my own father.

There was something frighteningly intimate about the way Howie touched me, his hand sliding down the back of my neck. It wasn’t uncomfortable at all, but my limbs felt gooey with uncertainty. I had the coordination of a newborn foal, legs twitching at awkward intervals. I didn’t feel anything. I couldn’t afford to feel anything, not now.

Urmacht shot us a discomfited look. I blinked back placidly, soap dribbling down my face, leaving stinging trails.

“My dad used to wash me,” Howie said, something heavy and solemn in his voice, “when I was a kid.”

I hummed.

“Yeah. Kid. He’s not a kid,” Urmacht pointed out.

“He’s a kid.” Howie’s palm cradled my skull, thumb pressing into the hollow behind my ear.

“Where’s his dad, anyways?”

“Who knows?”

Urmacht looked at me. I shrugged again. “Does it matter?” I asked.

He drew his lips together, frowning in a pucker.

“I think he’s with the guests,” Howie said. “He’ll definitely be coming. He has to come.”

I nodded as well as I could. “Yeah. To secure the transaction.”

Urmacht opened his mouth, face scrunched up, but then he closed it. Howie didn’t say anything.

“It’s scary, isn’t it? Leaving everything behind. I’ll really miss Polly,” I said, leaning forward as Howie’s hand pressed into the nape of my neck. “She’s my best friend.”

Urmacht nodded solemnly.

Howie’s fingers were cold and tight around my skull, curled like claws.

“But it’s for the best,” I continued, closing my eyes. The same words I’d told myself verbatim for the past year. “Friendships don’t end just like that. And I’m lucky to have a friend. As long as I have a foundation, I feel like I can handle a lot.”

“That’s a healthy outlook,” Urmacht said. “It’s good to have friends when going through a big life change, especially when it’s uncertain.”

“Yeah.” I blinked, eyelashes sticky. “I’m lucky to have Polly.”

Howie sucked in a shaky breath.

The incense was already making me dizzy.

“You’re lucky you have such a good temperament,” Urmacht’s voice informed me over my sloppy vision. “Your dad doesn’t seem to have given you much to work with.”

“Excuse me?”

“He should be here, counseling you, is all.”

“About what?”

“About what you do when you marry, about what you do after you marry. All of that.”

“Ah.” I blinked, my sight slotting into place. “Well, I just sit there, right? The pastor handles the rest. They put the shroud on me and I sit there until they take it off and then we’re married.”

“...Basically.”

“Well, what else is there?”

“Do you know how to pleasure a woman?” he asked seriously.

I shook my head.

Howie grabbed the bucket, dousing me in water. Soap suds slid past my eyes.

“Okay.” Urmacht squatted in front of me, holding out his hands. “So. Women are a bit like puzzles.”

“Women are complicated,” I agreed.

Howie scrunched up my hair, fingers rough.

“Okay. We’ll go really, really basic, here. It’s not the be-all-end-all, okay? At the center of a lady is her flower. You know that, don’t you?”

“Her pussy,” I answered. “Of course.”

Urmacht made a face. “Have a little more respect, won’t you?”

“Oh. Of course, I’m sorry.”

“His father raised him alone,” Howie said.

Urmacht glanced at him. “Right. I guess I should keep that in mind. Well, look. You know how that works, down there, right? The basics?”

“I think so,” I said. “There’s a vagina and a clitoris.”

“And there’s labia and the urethra,” Urmacht said. “Right. Your wife will want certain things from you, down there. Do you get what I’m saying?”

“Probably. She’ll want to have sex with me, I guess.”

Howie’s hands pushed into the back of my head, ruffling the short hairs.

“Right. Yeah. Well, did you know you can use your mouth, down there?”

“No,” I said. “I didn’t.”

“It’s called cunnilingus. You eat her out.”

“ ‘Eat her out.’ ”

“Yeah, you--” He paused, looking above me.

“I don’t want to talk about this.” Howie’s voice wobbled. He sounded sick.

“Sorry, Howie,” I said.

“It’s fine.” He didn’t sound fine. “You’re getting ahead of yourself anyways, Urmacht. Just drop it.”

Urmacht grunted.

“He just turned seventeen.”

“Yeah, well, I got married at twenty.”

“Yeah. _Twenty.”_

I didn’t understand why Howie was so on edge. It was difficult to think when Howie kept pouring ice water on me and Urmacht’d lit up that pungent incense.

“What do you even know, Howie? You’re gonna be an old, shriveled bachelor, at this rate.”

He let out a loud sigh, hot wind over my head. His hands disappeared from my skin. “I’m only twenty-two.”

Urmacht clicked his tongue. “What happened to your university girlfriend, anyways? Did that not work out?”

“That was complicated,” he bit out.

I stared at the swirling smoke absently, chamomile clogging my nose. Chamomile was my favorite. I ate it in the desserts I’d pick up from town, baked into little parcels and coated on _uschpo,_ sugary and herbal. I regularly drank chamomile tea on the porch, in the early morning. Chamomile was a night drink, I knew. Polly loved chamomile tea at night and she didn’t understand why I drank it in the morning. I didn’t understand why I did, either. I just liked the taste. I liked drinking something warm while the sun came up. I liked that Polly and I had something in common, too, even if we enjoyed it in different ways.

“Waldi?”

I blinked, eyes wavering. “Um. I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening. Yes?”

“You’ve got to stay with us.” Howie’s hand landed lightly on my shoulder, fingers foreign and probing against my muscle with an unsaid tension. I fidgeted against the invasion, feeling my teeth saw into my cheek.

“Cut him some slack,” Urmacht said. “He’s nervous.”

“Right,” Howie said. “Nervous. Right.”

“You’re being a _real_ party pooper, you know that? What’s your deal?”

He didn’t say anything.

Urmacht grimaced, shaking his head. “I hate this incense. My wife made me burn _moss,_ though, so you better count yourself lucky.”

I hummed.

He sighed, lips pulling into an unreadable line. “You seriously got no idea where your dad is?”

I shrugged. “No.”

“Where was he when you left, this morning?”

“I don’t know. Sleeping, probably.”

He opened his mouth, brow furrowing.

“Drop it,” Howie said. “This is his special day, right? That’s what you think? So just drop it.”

The room was stuffy, heady with strong smells. My skin was as cold as a corpse’s. I felt nothing. I didn’t feel worried. I didn’t feel ready, either.

“Waldi?” It was Howie.

“Yes?”

“I need to rinse you again.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Urmacht pulled his wallet back out, flipping it open and shut. I watched, captivated by this simple motion.

The water crashed over my head, an artificial ocean wave.

I closed my eyes, shivering, and I imagined drowning.

\- - -

Polly’s favorite Kolnoskan folklore is a love story. I always thought it was strange, since most of her favorite stories aren’t love stories. Polly tends to prefer moral stories, where spirits haunt the living and convince them to change their ways or die.

But Polly’s absolute favorite story is a love story. It’s _The Pràda and the Miller’s Daughter_.

It isn’t obscure by any means. Most people know it, especially children. I’m sure anyone from Kolnosk could recite the story beats by heart. Oschwall probably knows it, too. Anyone of Kolnoskan experience knows _The Pràda and the Miller’s Daughter._

The concept is quite simple: There is a miller, who has a daughter. The miller is a widow and she forbids her daughter from going far from their home, for fear of her safety.

This makes perfect sense. There are monsters in the woods, after all.

No one ever visits this pair. The miller’s daughter becomes painfully lonely, as a result. She dreams of going into the town, down the hill, and interacting with all of the townsfolk. Her mother, the miller, is very absent from her life, having locked herself in her bedroom. They don’t even share meals together.

So the miller’s daughter is quite lonesome. She wanders the grounds of their home and she does her chores, as any good daughter should. She talks to trees and plays catch with the wind, but none of this is terribly romantic. No birds rest on her fingertips and no woodland creatures invite themselves into her home. The miller’s daughter is only speaking to herself and tossing her possessions down the hill.

She decides to keep a garden, just outside of their windmill. Here, she constructs her own sense of companionship. She pours her emptiness into this creative act and the flowers bloom beautifully.

Naturally, this attracts the attention of an odious parasite. The pràda is a being that covets what others have. The less a person has, the more intensely the pràda needs to snap up whatever that person has left. After all, people with few possessions find those possessions all the more precious.

It swallows the flowers off of the bushes that line the garden in a single night.

When the girl sees this, she finds herself filled with a great sorrow. The pràda has taken her creation--the living creatures she has birthed--and it has claimed everything for its own. It has converted her genuine efforts into piles of steaming shit, left by her doorstep.

What is she to do? She cannot leave. She cannot speak to anyone. She only has the snapped stems of her garden.

So she plants more bushes, more flowers, creeping vines and morning glories. They all, too, bloom beautifully.

The pràda eats them.

This is predictable. Perhaps she knows better than to repeat her actions, but she has no real choice. It’s all she has. She is a creative force and she is stuffed the brim with denied personhood. The miller’s daughter plants her garden again.

The pràda eats it.

At this point, she is no longer planting flowers for herself; she is planting flowers to feed the pràda. This is a senseless act.

Perhaps she justifies this to herself. _Maybe it is hungry_ , she may think. _Maybe it is company,_ she may decide. This is very naïve, of course; the pràda is never “company.”

She believes that they are both lonely souls and, in this sense, they are kindred spirits. The pràda is, after all, a desperately lonesome monster. It sheds such pathetic, fake tears for her whenever she catches it in the act of consumption. (She does not consider that it still shits before her front door, however.) She understands that it eats to fill an abyss that has no bottom. Perhaps they are both experts in futile acts.

The miller’s daughter never asked to be saddled with the pràda, yet she finds herself seeking comfort in its existence. She feels seen, when her garden is destroyed. So long, she has felt like a ghost among the living. So long, she has doubted her own existence. Yet here she is, planting and birthing, reaped again and again, each time. She is the cycle of the Earth Herself, and she believes, she sees, she chooses to consider the pràda as part of this cycle.

It had cried so pitifully, after all. That means everything, doesn’t it?

Perhaps the pràda just needs a listening ear. This is sensible, isn’t it? People often act cruelly when they feel misunderstood. The pràda doesn’t even act cruelly; it acts thoughtlessly. A thoughtless act must hurt less than a cruel act, even if it is the same action, right? This is how the miller’s daughter frames the situation.

And she isn’t wrong. The pràda isn’t cruel. It simply is. It very well may feel bad. Who can say? It is a dreadfully lonesome creature and it acts out of desperation and stupidity. A dangerous combination, but not necessarily malicious.

“Please, won’t you sit down?” the girl asks the slobbering pràda, one day.

“Yes,” the pràda agrees readily.

“I would like to be friends,” the girl tells the pràda.

“Yes,” the pràda agrees readily.

“Will you hold my hand?” the girl asks.

“Oh, of course,” the pràda agrees readily.

She outstretches her arm. This is an important moment. This the climax of the story; it’s the cathartic release. Their natures are revealed, beyond human or monster. Physical contact is sacred in Kolnoskan culture, after all. Physical contact is the promise to do no harm. It is the establishment of connection. The miller’s daughter outstretches her arm with the promise of companionship.

The pràda gobbles the girl up.

\- - -

“I think I’m going to be sick,” I admit.

“Then let’s get out,” Uwe says. “I’ll take you back inside the--” A word I don’t know. A word I can’t remember, right now. “It’s quieter, there.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, standing up after he does. We shuffle past Franzi, who shoots me a curious look. “Be back,” I say. He nods, turning his attention back to the field.

I glance at it. A green expanse. Cardinals and Wasps. There’s a big score board. I forgot which team was which, though. I can’t read those words. I don’t even know the score.

“Come on,” Uwe says.

\- - -

“You’re my best friend,” she had said so firmly, once.

I remembered this ancient memory, stricken, standing on that altar. Blood roaring with a lion’s voice in my ears. All I could see, all I was, in the window. In Polly’s eyes. The reflection of a pathetic, shivering skeleton with needle teeth and wide eyes.

My best friend.

My best friend...

Oh, I love you, Polly.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, breath in my mouth. I felt infected, diseased. It wasn’t okay. It wasn’t okay, because I didn’t want this. Not like this.

Windows. Snatches of vision. Chamomile, dead in my throat.

Polly, crying silently. Why, I don’t remember. What a curious thing.

\- - -

“I’m going to be sick,” I choke, pressing my face into the cool concrete of the stadium interior. Uwe just rests his shoulder against the wall, watching me with an idle expression.

“Maybe you should go to the restroom,” he says mildly.

“Ah.” I swallow back thick strings of spit. “Thank you for the suggestion. I think I just need the air. I feel very sick.”

“You’re as white as a ghost.” He says this with no level of concern. He says this like it is simple observation.

Strangely, I prefer this.

The gray floor shivers under my gaze, uneasy and liquid. I take soft, squealing breaths. Uwe’s shadow creeps into the picture, slate-colored and broad-shouldered. “Waldi,” he intones.

“Just one single minute,” I gulp. “I will be fine, momentously.”

“Waldi, should I make a phone call for someone? A doctor?” He sounds so steady. Detached. It’s soothing.

I grimace, swallowing. My throat is coated in webs of mucus. My chest rattles with each breath, constricting like a python on a rat. I raise my eyes. Uwe stares at me, looming over my feeble form, an oily, black-scaled serpent. “Just one minute, please.”

“You’ll be fine,” he says. His hand lifts. I watch it sail through the air, shoring on my shoulder with a heavy weight. My skeleton shrieks, nerves alight with a frenzied confusion. I think about Ichma’s elbow, a ghost of a corpse of a memory. I think about Howie’s shivering hands washing my hair before the wedding. He _knew._

“Excuse me.”

I blink, focusing my eyes. Uwe freezes, frowning in confusion. He twists his neck to look behind him.

“Polly,” escapes my mouth, automatic.

She shoots me a glance, jaw set and face stone. She’s in a dress I’ve never seen, her coat buttoned up to her neck. Her steps click across the floor, roaring over the crowd outside. “I’m taking him out of here.”

Uwe blinks, lips sliding over his teeth. “Excuse me?” His voice is buttery and dangerous. “Who are you?”

“I’m his wife,” she supplies, tugging on the collar of my jacket. My feet skid against the concrete, kicking up loose debris.

Uwe’s hand slips off of my shoulder with the movement. His eyes slide over us. The eyes I’ve seen on so many people. I could spit in those eyes. “You followed us here.”

I blink. Polly shrugs at him.

“...I suppose it would make sense that he would have a wife like this.”

She tugs at my collar again.

I feel stripped raw, uncertain and wobbling on the fine filaments of my musculature. “What’s happening?” I ask dumbly. “Why are you here?”

“What are you saying?” Uwe asks.

“It doesn’t concern you,” Polly tells him. “I’m taking him home.”

Uwe’s lips quirk. He doesn’t say anything.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she says. “It’s boring. You’re all boring.”

He holds up his hands, fingers loose and palms open. “I suppose I’ll tell Franzi he had to leave. He is sick, after all.”

“Yes.” Her tone is strange. Both of their tones are strange.

“He isn’t used to crowds, is he?”

Polly doesn’t answer him. She grabs my jacket in a firmer grip and starts to walk toward the arched exit. I stumble, head bobbing as I waddle after her, attached by her fist.

Uwe emits a huff of disbelief. It almost sounds like a laugh.

\- - -

“Thank you,” I babble, half-delirious as she drags me down the sidewalk, dodging apathetic passersby. “I was gonna be _so_ sick. Thank you, thank you, _thank you, th--”_

“Waldi,” she says sharply.

My jaw clicks shut.

“We’re going home,” she says, voice a balm on my fevered brain. “We’re both going to take showers and then we’re going to bed.”

“Okay!” I chirp, as bubbly and sweet as her father used to always seem before he died.

Her knuckles are white below my chin, tight on my jacket. Polly has small hands, slim fingers. I think about her slapping me. Polly would never hit me. Polly won’t ever touch me. Not since the wedding, at least. Not since I tasted her breath and choked on the fumes.

She marches in front of me, dragging me like a dog on a leash. I have no concept of honor or dignity. This is fine.

I’m still going to be sick. I’m going to puke on Polly’s fist. She deserves it. Howie knew. Ichma was too young to know. I was raised to be Polly’s husband, groomed since I was eight, and I didn’t even know it. I’m still a pitiful husband, all the same. What a debacle.

She stops abruptly and I almost run into her. I’m so close, I can smell her. Floral shampoo and city stench. I clench my jaw, swallowing. Then I swallow again. Swallow. Swallow. Keep the bile down. My throat is so tight. My throat is trying to strangle me. How irritating.

We’re at the train station. Ah, I see. The train is already here. How lucky. She lets go of me once we squeeze our way onto the car, leaving me untethered for all of four seconds before she tugs on my sleeve, seating me next to her.

My heart gradually slows its frenzied gallop, settling into a more manageable rhythm. I swallow, mouth dry and spit thick. I feel dreadful, but a bit more sustained.

Polly sits with a coiled, vibrating energy. “I’m sorry.” She sounds strange. I can’t read the tone. It doesn’t sound remorseful.

I sniffle into my jacket, frowning.

“I have to protect you,” she says firmly. “Even if you hate me.”

“I don’t understand.” My voice sounds petulant to even my ears.

“When I saw him touch you, I could have killed him.”

I shudder.

“Maybe I’m not perfect,” she says unsteadily. “Maybe I’m going beyond my rights. Maybe I fucked up, today. Maybe I’m always going to fuck up. But you’re my responsibility. And I’m... I can’t help how I feel about you, Wally. I wish I could.”

I lick the inside of my mouth, tasting the musty air from the stadium. I don’t know why it reminds me of the wedding, but it does. Doesn’t smell anything like the wedding, but that’s what it brings to mind.

Polly rubs her face, shoulders raised. She mumbles something into her palms. It sounds like _I’m so fucked up,_ but I can’t be certain.

“Polly,” I say, more an animal utterance than an actual articulation.

She clamps her hands around her knees, staring straight ahead. A torrent escapes her lips. “You shouldn’t have gone to that game, anyways. I should have just listened to my instincts. My mom was right. I hate it so much, but she was right about everything. That’s what I get for thinking I knew better than her for once in my frickin’ life.”

I don’t say anything. My insides flutter with intense, worrying emotions. I rattle with the train, a single entity, and I wait to dissolve.

“You win, okay?” She sounds tired. “You and my mom and everybody else. I’m the bitch.”

“You’re not a bitch.” The word is rancid in my mouth, riddling my bloody gums with halitosis.

She snaps her head to glare at me. “You really think so? You don’t even know what the fuck is happening, half the time!” Her scowl freezes, before smoothing out, eyes slipping closed. She groans. “See? I’m such a bitch, holy shit.”

I don’t say anything. She wasn’t wrong, after all. I don’t know what’s happening, half the time. Right now, I’m very sick. I’m going to puke all over my shoes.

She takes a deep breath, holding it in. It releases in a steady hiss. “Okay,” she says. She smoothes her hands over her lap. “Okay. Okay. Okay.”

“Polly?”

“I’m taking control,” she says. “That’s what you want, right? I’m calm, now. You’re not going to go out with any of Franzi’s friends ever again.”

I cock my head. “Okay.”

“No more outings and no more bullshit. This is all too much for either of us. You need help and I haven’t been giving it to you. I haven’t been fair to you at all. I need to give you structure and I’ve just been... I thought everybody was wrong, that I knew better, and I... I’m selfish, okay? And a coward. You’ve got to know that. I’m selfish.”

I don’t say anything.

She exhales shakily.

I try to reach out, but my arm won’t extend. My hand hangs in the air, an orphan offering comfort. Polly doesn’t look at me.

\- - -

“This isn’t how the original story ends,” Polly said with a frown in her voice, words crackling over the line.

“I don’t care,” I said. “This is how it should have ended.”

She didn’t say anything.

\- - -

Polly’s apartment is beginning to smell familiar. Polly’s apartment smells like her and now it smells like me, too. It smells like her family’s dining room table after hours of Standard tutoring. It smells like my old bedsheets, the night Ichma and I stared at the ceiling and made promises we couldn’t hope to keep. It’s a complicated realization--what that means, because everything means _something_ \--but I’m numb to it. I can’t afford any expensive emotions, right now.

The shower has been running for a while. I can hear it through the wall, like rain. I think about the rain that would patter on my father’s roof, like little hooves clopping along the metal shingles. I think about standing in the rain. I think about Polly, standing outside the stadium. I think about what would have happened if Polly hadn’t come for me. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. I would have puked, I suppose. I would have puked on my shoes and Uwe would have watched.

She followed us. What a strange undertaking. I wonder if I could have caught that something was wrong. Polly worries, I suppose. Maybe that’s the only clue I needed. There’s a lot that Polly doesn’t say. Omission is her favorite lie. I wonder why Polly doesn’t tell me things. It’s fine if she doesn’t, it’s her right, but I still wonder. I think of Howie, lying as easily as telling the truth, and I wonder.

I slide my hands over my thighs, tugging idly on my pant-legs. My eyes flit toward the carpet stain. A coffee stain. Polly has eyes like coffee. Brown and bitter. She takes sugar with her coffee, but no milk. All sharp tastes, with no cushion. Dark, with no light. Feeling my way through my windowless room. We share a wall, between our bedrooms. We share a wall, but not a bed.

It all means too much. I can’t interpret any of it.

Or maybe I just don’t want to interpret it. Maybe I’m afraid of change. Change has never been good for me, after all. All the wrong things changed while all the wrong things stayed the same. Maybe I should stop running away from the inevitable. Maybe I shouldn’t shy away from eventual decay. The end of all concepts as I’ve worked to understand them. Nature and relationships and my own body.

What I mean is this: I’m tired. I’m tired of how I live. I know no other way, though. I tried leaving, and they dragged me back. I don’t live isolated from other people. I don’t live immune to responsibility. I wish it were simple, but it’s all so complicated. I feel like any good thing I ever had was snatched away from me. It’s nothing like the books. And I feel as though I have no allies in this world. Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. I wouldn’t know. Faces always look ugly, when one feels alone.

The shower shuts off. I blink slowly, feeling the tug of the muscles that operate my eyelids. The rain has stopped. I was a green leaf child, it’s true. I was born in the rainy month, when the air smells like dog’s breath. The two-faced temperatures, shrill wind chilling me to the bone while sunlight sets my skin ablaze. I am a creature of duality.

I stare at the carpet stain. The shape of a ship. I’ve never been the ocean, have no experience with ships of which to speak. The only person I know who’s been on the ocean is Polly.

Polly. Right.

Polly, who trailed us to the stadium without a word. Polly, who berates herself over invisible wrongs I’ve never acknowledged. Polly, who’s full of impatient words and careful consideration. Polly is also a creature of duality. Unreadable eyes, an open face. Weeping, on the altar. Coffee eyes, with sugar and no milk. Maybe this isn’t about me at all. The omen could be entirely about Polly. She knocked over the cup. It’s her coffee. Her carpet.

“You’re still up,” Polly says, running her fingers through her hair.

My eyes slowly focus on her. She’s wearing a towel, pinned under her armpit. The bathroom door is open, leaking steam. “Um,” I say intelligently.

“You should shower.”

“Um.”

“And--”

“Go to bed,” I complete for her. Our script. Her solution. My acquiescence.

She shrugs, bare shoulders glistening with precipitation. Rain water.

“Polly,” I say emptily, licking my mouth. It stings. “I think I’m tired of fighting. And I’m tired of listening, too.”

Polly stands still, like a deer. Polly is a prey animal, hiding wolf’s teeth behind her lips.

The carpet stain isn’t about permanence. The stain signals change. A ship, sailing on whatever waters. To Jotin, to a family vacation, to home. The stain is an introduction, a new element, a new color. It’s a domestic symbol. The setting is important. The living room. It’s about me. Me, living in a new environment, adapting a new role. Coffee. It’s about Polly. Polly and her coffee-stain eyes and unsaid words.

I want to ask her what this all means. I want to understand. Our relationship has always been rancid, stinking beneath the gaze of vultures. Reptile eyes, waiting for the scent of weakness. The world is full of opportunists. Most of them probably mean well. Pitying glances, calculated appraisals. Monetary exchanges.

 _If I could have chosen,_ I want to say, _it probably would have been you. But I didn’t get to choose. And that makes all the difference._

 _Could we reset?_ I want to plead. _Could we forget our histories and just pretend we want to be here? Could I ever forgive you?_

It’s such a simple thing. It’s easy. Reaching out an arm, extending a hand.

I sit on the couch. Polly stands on the floor.

It is frighteningly difficult to offer permission. It is even more terrifying to ask.

“You know, that stadium. It was like the pews in the church,” I say. I wish I weren’t saying this, but it comes out, anyways. “Well. Not really. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I couldn’t stop thinking about how lost I felt.”

She doesn’t say anything.

“I just... I don’t know you very well, do I?”

“You know me better than anyone,” she says, arms flopping limply against her sides.

“That’s very sad,” I observe.

She swallows thickly.

I stand up, joins creaking with an ancient uncertainty. “Um. Polly, I’ve been thinking. And I know that doesn’t mean much--most of my thoughts don’t make much sense to other people. I accept that, but...”

She only looks at me.

“I don’t want to pretend we aren’t married,” I confess. “But I also don’t think we can ignore...why we’re here.”

“I’ve never ignored it,” she says, tone sour. There’s a tremor beneath it, though. There’s a complicated, virulent emotion swimming through the canals of her veins.

I take a slow step forward. “Why did you follow me?”

She opens her mouth, before closing it.

“I just don’t really understand you,” I say, taking another step. Traversing a fissure. “There’s a lot you don’t say.”

“I’m _telling_ you things,” she says. _“I_ had to prompt _you_ to let me tell you about things.”

“I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about you.” I take another step. Another. This room smells nothing like the church. Smelling chamomile has always made me physically ill, ever since. It makes my heart quake in my chest. That isn’t normal, I’m sure. I used to love chamomile. “Um. I never really know how you’re feeling.”

“Oh,” she says flatly.

Between us is a meter of space, a divide wider than the ocean. We are separate continents, ships that will never make contact. Contact is disastrous, after all. I swallow, throat intent on auto-strangulation. I think about her breath in my mouth, the wetness of her cheeks. It’s all I can remember. A fractured sense of the past. That’s all I have.

I step forward, the ground sloshing unevenly beneath me.

Polly doesn’t move.

I step forward, and the world does not fall out from beneath me.

Polly only stands still.

I lean forward, air between us, thrumming with an unknown sense. Her breath rushes past my ear. _It’s a happy day, right?_

“What are you doing,” she says.

“I’m going to, um.” Well, it’s sort of awkward, now. “Can I, uh? I’m sorry, I...”

“Of course you can,” she says, voice so quiet I almost mistake it for the wind outside.

I slowly duck my head into her shoulder. Polly stiffens at the contact, her body a mannequin. My heart garbles in my ears.

Nothing extraordinary happens.

The world turns.

Polly does not move.

I don’t, either.

The air leaves my lungs and it returns, sure as the ocean tide along the beach.

Polly smells clean, fresh from the shower. Her skin is soft and warm. I can’t help but breathe deeply, thinking about the mother I never knew, about the hot water we never had, about the friend who smiled at me when I spoke.

“Waldi?” Her voice cracks.

“Polly,” I mumble, lips scraping against the juncture between her shoulder and her neck. I can see the dirt road we used to walk up to my father’s house, blurry and scattered in my memory. I tuck my lips against my teeth, shivering away from the contact. I don’t pull back, though. Polly doesn’t push me off. Her fingers creep over my shoulders, the legs of shy spiders. “Polly, I want to be friends, again.”

“I... Of course we’re friends.” She sounds lost.

“Mm. I guess that’s good.”

“It probably isn’t.”

“I haven’t touched someone ever in my life,” I confess. “I don’t think I’ve ever reached out and successfully touched anyone before, Polly.”

I can hear her swallow. I can feel the motion of her throat, the smooth tendons in her neck against my jaw. Polly is warm and her skin is soft.

“I followed you because I was worried,” she says. “And I felt entitled. I’m awful.”

“Is that bad?”

“It’s _really_ bad,” she says.

“Huh.” I blink, eyelashes sticky. The stain wavers in my vision, partially obscured by Polly’s damp hair.

“I can’t help it,” she hisses. “I wish I could, but I fucking _can’t._ ”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t know how to say it.” I can feel her throat as she swallows, the flex of her tendons. Her skin is warm and soft. “I’m just... I have no right to anything, but I still feel like I do. And I wish I didn’t. I really wish I didn’t. We shouldn’t be friends. This would be a lot easier to navigate if you hated me.”

“I don’t hate you,” I say. “I don’t think I’ve ever hated you.”

She swallows again.

“I used to dream about us touching,” I say. “I don’t know how I feel about it, in the real world. I kind of want to run and hide.” My fingers twitch against the empty air, uncertain. I set them lightly on her waist, the dip in the damp towel, the space between her ribs and hips. It’s just a human body. I have a human body, too. I have ribs and hips, too. There’s nothing horrible about this. I’m numb. I can’t afford emotions. “But I don’t hate you. It’s complicated, but I really don’t hate you.”

I close my eyes. For a moment, I can drift like that, clinging to Polly like a drowning man clings to driftwood. My legs are so tired, they wobble like ocean waves, rocking me to and fro. I’ve never seen the ocean.

“My mom bought you,” Polly says sharply. “I didn’t do anything to stop it.”

“I know.” I open my eyes, vision swimming.

“Your father sold you. Your father did this to you. And I let him. I capitalized.”

“We don’t need to discuss the obvious.” I pull away, looking at her. She doesn’t remove her hands from my back. They’re a thrumming, warm presence entrapping me, like a rabbit caught in a non-malicious snare. My heart is pounding, knocking against the roof of my upper palate. Dirt roads and smiles I slowly learned to accept. The years before I realized that trust is always a weakness. My stomach twists. I’m going to be sick all over again.

“Then what do you _want_ to talk about?” She shifts her hands along my spine, frustrated. The fabric bunches, abrasive cotton. “This is the whole fucking problem, this is the biggest problem in our lives, isn’t it?” Her words smack into each other, barbed and angry. “It’s a...a, I don’t know, you know the big words for this shit. You know how to write about it, like you _always_ write about it, in _every fucking story,_ a-and...” She blinks, eyes glistening. “And nobody knows! Nobody knows what you’re saying, but _I_ do! _I_ read it! I see how you picture me in all of those stories, and the last one, I’m that-- Is that it? Do you finally just want to say it? Do you finally want to leave?”

“Polly.”

She quiets, breath puffing against the air between our faces, hot and claustrophobic. There are no tears. Her eyes are wet. There are no tears.

“You feel badly,” I realize.

She laughs humorlessly.

I’m not sure what to else to say. It’s a void of a conversation. Cars careening off cliffs, winding paths that lead to nowhere, an entire countryside devoid of--

“I always knew,” she says, staring past me. “But I didn’t know what it meant until I was fourteen, maybe.”

“...I don’t understand.”

She shrugs, lips pulling. “I. I just didn’t realize what that meant. That...that it was bad. That it was _really_ fucking bad. That my mom made a deal with your dad. That she bought you.” She licks her mouth. “For me.” Her fingers clench against my shirt, scrunching the fabric. “You know, I really think she meant well. I know that’s...really no consolation. It’s bullshit, I know, but I think she thought she was doing the right thing.”

“She was doing a favor,” I say.

“No.” She swallows thickly. “She...was trying to find something that was mutually beneficial. If it was a favor, she wouldn’t have made it a transaction. She wouldn’t have made you marry me. --It’s so fucked, isn’t it? But when could I have told you? What would have happened? It was my fault, I. Just because she saw I had a stupid crush, but how could I know that she’d...? I don’t know. I... I was afraid of losing you, I was--” She stops, eyes shuttering. “Well.” She shrugs again, lips quirking humorlessly. “I guess I did.”

I try not to grimace. It’s only a partial success. The resulting half-expression is probably worse, though. “I was...fond of you, Polly,” I admit. It’s a dreadful thing to say aloud. Our shared history is a severed thread, split by our marriage.

She never told me until we were on the same pedestal. The old log cabin with all of its complicated smells. Howie’s shivering fingers, gripping the wash basin as Urmacht lit incense and wrinkled his nose. The tears on Polly’s woeful face. She could have at least told me, I think. We grew up together and I didn’t know.

I could probably love her, if not for that.

Maybe I do love her. But it isn’t an uncomplicated, convenient love. It’s swarming with flies in the midday sun. My love is a rotting fruit. It’ll sustain me, only because I have nothing else.

What a horrible sentiment.

“I want to love you,” I confess.

“You shouldn’t,” she says, fingers frail points of contact against my back. Spikes. Spider legs. Hot coals.

Polly feels badly. The knowledge sits cold and slimy in my stomach. I don’t feel vindicated. I think about her pained expression when we had coffee. I didn’t really feel vindicated then, either. All of our fights, our million miscommunications. No one is really keeping score. Every loss for one is a loss for both of us. It’s unfortunate, but it’s true. And Polly, she hates herself. For all of this.

I don’t hate Polly.

I don’t exactly know what I feel, but I don’t hate Polly.

“We were kids,” I say.

“We are not justifying this,” she says, voice tight with coiled emotions.

“I’m not. I’m just saying. We were kids. I don’t want to justify it. I just...” I frown, narrowing my eyes. Polly’s face darkens, framed by my eyelashes. “I want to move past this. It’s killing us. I think this whole situation has made us both somewhat crazy.”

Polly doesn’t say anything.

“We have to move past this,” I say. “We have to forgive each other.”

“I don’t have anything to forgive.”  
“I don’t really care, to be honest, if that’s what you think. --Sorry, that sounded really bad. It’s been a long day. Um.” I straighten my posture, but it’s difficult to hold myself right when Polly’s arms are around me. It’s distractingly foreign. An unsprung trap, metal jaws encompassing my arms. _Another person._ “I just mean, I think we are both victims in this situation.” Her tears, her breath. _It’s okay._ “And maybe we should just make the most of it.”

“We aren’t talking about the wrong order at a restaurant or something,” she hisses. “This is _serious,_ Waldi.”

“I know.” I swallow. “I’ve spent the last two years wishing more than anything that you weren’t my wife. That I wasn’t in your family. That I’d been with literally anyone else. I lost my only friend. I was alone for two years. You left me.”

She doesn’t say anything.

“But that doesn’t mean I want to give up. I respect you, Polly. I...like you. I want to have a good relationship. You know, your parents were the first married couple I ever saw? I wanted that. I still do. I want that, Polly. I want the simple things.”

“Those aren’t possible,” she says. “The simple things don’t exist.”

“Maybe not,” I agree. “Maybe I need to come to terms with that. But I don’t want to come to terms with it alone, anymore. It’s been so long. I’ve been alone my whole life, Polly. I’m going to die if I go back to Kuk.”

“I had to go,” she says, biting her lower lip.

“I know,” I say. “You had school. I understand.”

“No. I’m a coward, okay? I couldn’t live with myself. I couldn’t face you. It made me sick. I was so immature. I thought I was doing you a favor. --I mean, you gave some pretty clear signals, after the wedding.”

I don’t even remember what happened after the wedding. I only remember what happened before. Urmacht and Howie. The only men in town who knew me half-well enough to be my groom’s procession. The pews. Polly’s stricken face.

“Waldi?”

“I don’t remember after the wedding,” I say.

“Oh.” She blinks owlishly. “Well. That’s probably for the best. It was awful.”

“I believe you.” I close my eyes, forcing my head against her neck again, my heart shivering. Something must be wrong with me. I shouldn’t want her touch. Polly’s right, I shouldn’t want to love her. But I shouldn’t be so terrified, either. It isn’t natural.

Uwe’s eyes, in my mind. Clinical and approachable. Franzi’s laughing mouth, open and red. So many people in one space. A city’s worth of hollering men. A squirming mass of humanity. Gaping jaws. Monsters.

“Your dad was wrong,” I mumble. “I’m really _not_ a catch.”

“What?”

“Nothing. I’m a mess, Polly. I have something wrong with my head.”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I think it’s fair, considering the circumstances. Considering everything.”

“A fine way to refer to a life.”

She snorts, finding some kind of humor in that statement, I suppose. “I’m not surprised you feel that way. You write circles around it.”

Her hands are so warm. Must be from the shower. She smells clean and natural. Her hair smells like her shampoo, the shampoo that I’ve grabbed by accident a few times. It smells nice. I never grabbed it by accident. There were no accidents. Polly is so warm, skin soft and pliant against my trembling jaw. Her fingers press against the meat of my upper back, between my shoulder blades and the knobs of my spine. “I guess.”

“Sofie doesn’t even know that your story’s a reinterpretation of a pràda story, you know.”

I shrug weakly under the weight of her hands. So strange. There’s something hideous and warm wriggling in my gut. I feel sick all over again. Not in a bad way, I don’t think. I’m not sure. It’s night and I can’t see the window. “Why would she? It’s Kolnoskan.”

It’s contact, right? Meaningful contact has always been unfamiliar to me. Cold water and empty stares. I was a ghost. A pale, starving ghost standing outside the porch at night, begging to be taken away by anything at all.

I can feel Polly’s breath against the back of my head, warm and wet. I swallow thickly, fingers curling around her shoulders.

Polly shrugs, her shoulder shifting my jaw with the motion. An ocean wave. “No one knows that _The Hunter’s_ based on a Kolnoskan story, either. But people still really like your stories, even if they don’t connect on that level. Sofie’s a big fan.”

I breathe and I don’t want to move. It’s Polly’s smell and skin, isn’t it? That’s what’s so comforting. But maybe it’s just contact with any clean, warm human body. I can’t say. I feel so confused and lonely. I’m nineteen.

“I was the pràda, wasn’t I?”

I open my eyes. The first thing I see is our separate doorways.

“Wally?”

She sounds as lost as I feel. I shift, uncertain how I should answer. I have no idea where she got that interpretation from. It’s more than befuddling. “I’m the pràda,” I admit, tongue dry and stubborn.

She doesn’t say anything.

“I’m the pràda,” I say slowly, picking my way through my words, “and you’re the girlfriend. --The miller’s daughter. And this...thing, between us, forms islands out of us.”

She doesn’t say anything to this, either. There’s a strange quality to her silence that I’m too tired to interrogate.

I drop my arms, fingers forming into fists. “It’s the only ending that makes sense to me.”

She sighs. Her hands fall from my back.

We’re just two people, standing in each other’s personal space.

No car crashes. Nothing dramatic. Everything is just as it seems. Nothing more. Nothing less.

“I need to get changed,” she says. “Dinner?”

“Dinner,” I echo, lost.

“Can you heat up dinner?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Thanks. I’ll be right back.”

She extracts herself and I watch her bare back disappear into her room. I feel hollow, like my insides have been scooped out. _I’d never felt like this before,_ I think. _I’ve always felt like this,_ I realize. Like some hobbling half-creature.

Whatever we had has changed. That’s scary. Well, it’s changed before, hasn’t it? Change is not necessarily so bad.

No. Not necessarily.

But.

And yet.

There’s a comfort in hollowness, in familiarity. In the absence of Polly’s fingers, there is a steady, plodding peace. It’s a weak heartbeat. Living, but only just. But at least its life is assured. This new thing, it’s uncertain. We’ve pulled out all the wires and tubes. It’s breathing on its own now and I can’t say for how long that will last.

I...want Polly. I do. And that’s a hard thing to admit. It hurts a pride I didn’t know I possessed. I remember getting dragged through the streets like a dumb animal. Humiliating. Degrading. I never saw the ocean. I never puked on my shoes. Polly cried at the wedding. Everything melds together. My brain is a confused slurry, sloshing around in my skull. I’m not the person I thought I was.

I want Polly. I want a lot of things.

It’s alarming. I didn’t come into this willingly. It feels like a betrayal of my innermost personal autonomy to admit this. And I’m not entirely sure what else I want, either. It’s very difficult. It’s very complicated. This is a Gordian knot of emotional paradoxes.

Maybe I should stop idly fiddling and finally just take the sword to it. Good or bad, at least there’s a resolution.

Who can say? It’s too late now, I suppose. We’ve breached an unsaid barrier tonight and yet life continues. I need to heat up dinner. The mundane is an anchor. I have to root myself to whatever else I can. I need to adapt, but I’ve no security. I feel like my tortoise shell has been ripped out from my body, taking my skin and skeleton with it. I’m naked and uncertain, right now.

Naked. She cried. She cried, I remember that. She didn’t cry tonight, though. No one has cried, tonight.

Dinner. I can do that. That, I can do.

Right. Let’s focus on that.

\- - -

We eat dinner together. Leftovers, from the refrigerator. Not the soup. Oat slaw. My father’s recipe. I heat everything up on the stove while Polly reads the paper at the table. She was only gone a few minutes. It was eternal. It was an instance.

She eats and I watch her. I’m not very hungry. I should be. I didn’t eat today and I feel like there’s a gaping hole in the pit of my stomach. Isn’t that what hunger is? An absence, asking to be filled? Polly glances up, eyes lingering on my plate.

“You can eat,” she says.

“I will,” I say. “I’m just...”

She hums, looking at the paper.

I’m hungry in a way that I’m not sure can be satisfied. That I’m not sure I _want_ to satisfy. Polly’s lashes fan across her cheeks as she reads. I don’t even know what it is. A gaping absence that’s always been there. A hole in the center of our world. And I stand before it, clothed in chamomile incense, an awaiting groom. My tortoise shell, my home, my skin. So natural, it never felt shackling.

 _Oh. I’m lonely,_ I realize.

I fidget with my fork, sliding it across the plate. Not a great subject. I veer toward a different conversation avenue, somehow more preferable despite its nature. “So you followed us to the stadium?”

Polly glances up. “You didn’t want to go, did you?”

I shrug.

“This place has been really stressful. I just... I was worried.” She blinks, as if she sees something that I can see. “I have a gross possessive streak. Won’t happen again.”

I shrug again, a one-trick automaton. “I don’t really care. Just wanted to confirm.”

“Yeah, well. I care. I won’t do it again.”

“I think Uwe saw you. He was a little strange on the way over.”

“Probably. I dunno.”

“How did you get into the stadium?”

“I asked the ticket master if I could see my husband.”

“Ah. And they just let you in?”

She turns her eyes fully to me, some humor set into the lines of her face. “There’s no way they’d expect some woman to go through all that trouble to sneak into a sporting event.”

 _Some woman._ “I heard women don’t really go to sporting events.”

“Yeah. I guess not. I dunno.” She folds the newspaper up. “I was never really into sports. That’s more Ichma’s speed. Though she’s into boy bands, now, isn’t she?”

“Very much so.”

She snorts.

“Ichma can like whatever she wants,” I say.

“Oh. I mean, of course. Sorry, didn’t mean to seem like I felt otherwise.”

“Howie says she might go to school here?”

Polly sighs, tapping at the table absently. “I dunno.”

Here we are, talking like nothing happened. I’m the pràda. Hungry, wanting, anxious for contact. Not a predator, but a parasite. I am the liability. I don’t understand how Polly could have seen it any other way, when she read that story, but she did. Somehow, she did. And now we’re talking like I didn’t reach out and spew a million ill-formed sentences and sentiments into the air between us.

She looks so tired.

I clear my throat. “Are you alright?”

She picks up her head. “Huh? Yeah. I’m just... I dunno.”

“Hm.”

“We had a moment,” she says. “We definitely had a moment earlier, didn’t we? I don’t even know what to make of it. Did it mean anything?”

I cock my head. “I...well, I suppose it did.”

“We touched,” she points out. “You and me. We, I dunno, we...hugged? I guess?”

“More like a grapple,” I say.

“More like a grapple,” she agrees.

“I said some untoward things.”

“It’s fine. I really don’t mind.” She shifts, folding the newspaper again, into an uneven triangle. “Um. I just... I was wondering if we could do that again. Sometime.”

“Grapple?”  
She shoots me a look.

“Hug,” I amend. “I mean... Yes. I think so.”

“Maybe kiss?”

I blink.

Polly just watches me.

“Um,” I respond. “Well. Maybe.”

“I’m pushing too much, aren’t I?”

“Actually, I don’t think you ever push enough.”

She arches a brow.

I train my eyes on my plate. I wonder if Polly’s sick of oat slaw. I need to do better. “I’ll learn to cook right,” I murmur.

“Can we try kissing, then? --Not now.”

My neck creaks as I raise my head. Polly wears a mild expression. It’s a mask. Polly is scared, isn’t she? Of what? She has all of the power in this relationship. Polly shouldn’t be scared of asking anything from me. She asks for coffee all the time.

“Ah.” I glance at the sink. “Maybe, but. Well, I’m tired. I’m... It’s...a. Well.” I look back at her, at the curvature of her extended wrist. It’s shaking. “--You’re afraid.”

She laughs. “Of course I am.”

I frown. “Of what?”

“Myself.”

I blink.

She stands, pushing her chair in. “I’m going to go to bed. Knock on my door if you need anything. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Um. Yes, Polly.”

I watch her slip out of the kitchen, staring after her back dumbly. My mind is empty. Frequently, I feel stuffed full of thoughts, but now my eyes are trained on Polly’s disappearing form, stuck on the edge of her nightdress.

Are we friends, again?

Or, well, whatever we are, is it good?

I don’t understand. It’s been such a long day, so much has happened, and yet I feel strangely inert. I didn’t do much. I reached out and I made contact. That’s all. That’s all I really did.

Sometimes, maybe it’s just that simple.


	6. The Pràda and the Miller's Daughter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short interlude between the first and second halves of the story. Not really an update, but it's part of the story and I figured I'd post it now rather than later, since the next section won't be uploaded for a while. I greatly appreciate the support this story has had. Thank you so much for reading.

Polly’s absolute favorite story is a love story. It’s _The Pràda and the Miller’s Daughter_.

It isn’t obscure by any means. Most people know it, especially children. It’s a children’s story, in a lot of ways. It’s very safe, very unassuming. It’s sweet, actually.

The concept is quite simple: There is a miller, who has a daughter. The miller is a widow and she forbids her daughter from going far from their home, for fear of her safety.

The miller’s daughter is terribly lonely, as a result. She plants a garden. The garden is eaten by the pràda. The miller’s daughter replants the garden. It is eaten. She replants it again. It is eaten again. Four days and four nights.

Finally, she catches the pràda in the act. It weeps terribly at the sight of her. It cries and cries. Wails and wails with its wide mouth.

“Oh,” it says, “I’m very sorry. Goodbye.”

“Wait,” she says, and it waits. “Please, won’t you sit down?”

“I don’t understand,” the pràda says.

“I would like to be friends,” the girl tells the pràda.

“Oh, no,” the pràda says.

“Will you hold my hand?” the girl asks.

“Oh, I don’t know,” the pràda says.

Regardless, the miller’s daughter reaches out with an open palm.

\- - -

“And they became companions for life,” Polly finished.

“That’s a lame story,” Ichma mumbled, drooping eyes fixed on the night sky.

“Well, _you’re_ lame,” Polly retorted. “She’s lame, isn’t she, Waldi?”

“I don’t like the ending,” I confessed.

She shook her head. But she smiled. She smiled at me, as she shook her head. It didn’t make sense. “Well, tough,” she said. “That’s our camping story. Sorry that you guys wanted something ghoulish.”

“I just wanted something not boring!” Ichma whined, but it was a half-hearted expression. She was going to fall asleep, soon.

“It wasn’t boring,” I said, picking my words with consideration. “It’s... I guess I just don’t get it. The pràda eats people.”

“Just because you don’t get it doesn’t mean it’s nonsense.” She picked up her stick and stuck it into the dying embers, prodding at the low fire. It glittered in her eyes, twin stars, her irises as faded as beech bark in the dim light.

“It isn’t realistic.”

She blinked slowly, eyelashes fanning over her cheeks. “How do you know? What about it isn’t realistic? That it has a happy ending?”

_Well...yeah,_ I didn’t say.

“I don’t know why you accept all of the other stories, but you don’t like this one. I thought you were pràda-obsessed. Mega pràda fan!”

“Definitely _not_ a fan,” I murmured.

She just smiled at me, lips closed and cheeks dimpled. I couldn’t explain that smile. It made my insides tremble, made my gut feel brittle and flaking like a rusty gate. I thought of goats in that moment, grazing behind my father’s old fence. Their horizontal pupils, their rotating jaws, their bleating mouths. Herbivores. I thought of herbivores.

“Happy endings,” Polly said, “aren’t any less ‘deep’ or ‘exciting’ than unhappy endings.”

Ichma didn’t reply. She was asleep.

“The ending isn’t earned or appropriate,” I said.

“I don’t think it’s supposed to be ‘earned’ or ‘appropriate.’” She yawned. I watched her tongue loll, I watched the back of her throat expand into an eternal emptiness. “Wow, it’s getting late. Anyways. Anyways, you’re both wrong.”

I shrugged, turning my eyes to the dying fire. I heard the sound of crumpling newspaper, the headlines mutilated between Polly’s palms.

“You gonna go to bed, Waldi?”

“I don’t know.”

She hummed. “Well, I’m gonna stay up. I’m gonna toss the last of our paper on the fire and then we’ll stomp it out, in a bit.” She lobbed the ball into the dirt pit. The small fire hiccuped in response, belching loose embers into the air.

She leaned down, blowing on it.

“Be careful,” I warned. “You’ll burn your hair.”

She scoffed. “Yes, Dad. I still remember everything Fire Safety Instructor Hershel taught me from when I was, like, _five._ Don’t worry.”

Ichma slept on in the dirt, a discontented frown on her face. _She’s so young,_ I thought as I adjusted my posture on the half-rotted log. The fire swelled, its warmth touching my face with timid fingers.

I watched Polly open her mouth and stick her tongue out, tasting the embers.


	7. The Book Club

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, each part is subject to extensive edits. Thanks so much for reading.

“Things are different, now,” Polly says, lying on her bed.

I stand in the doorway, rubbing my arms. Of course things are different, now. They’re also the same. Things like this linger. But they’re evolving, aren’t they? I don’t recognize whatever this is anymore. Not completely. It’s disappointing in a way. It was the only familiar thing I felt I had left in this world and now it’s going away.

She sits up, flashing me a tepid smile. “You can come in, you know.”

“Mm. After breakfast.”

“That wasn’t a ‘no.’”

“I’d like to sit on your balcony,” I admit. That much is true.

“It’s really small.”

“Huh.”

“But sure. Maybe we could eat breakfast out there?”

“I guess,” I hedge.

“I’m very good at negotiating,” she says seriously.

“I believe you.”

“Just get some toast and gravy; we’ll eat out there.”

“Okay.” I turn, fingers skating across the wallpaper.

“And coffee,” she calls. “Just do instant.”

“Of course, Polly.”

The kitchen is a sanctuary. I don’t look at the spice rack, pulling out the tin of instant coffee. I know it’s instant coffee because it has a big picture on it, of a coffee cup with running legs. I set the tin on the counter before grabbing the kettle and turning the knob from the sink. I don’t have to wait long for the faucet to spit warm water. When it comes out, I fill the kettle with little thought. Hot water.

It’s strange how I’m so used to it, already.

Everything is always changing so much.

Last night happened. That’s the current alarm in my brain. Last night happened and now things are certainly different. No change has ever been positive in my life. This is a terrifying precipice that I stand before. Maybe I’ve already tumbled over the edge.

I haven’t tumbled alone.

Is that comforting? Not necessarily. If things get worse with Polly, I don’t know what I’ll do. If I hurt Polly, I have no idea how I’ll cope. If Polly hurts me, I’ll really die, I’m sure of it. This is genuinely terrifying.

My limbs move automatically, disinterested with my internal crisis. Life goes on. I’m used to hot water, so I’ll get used to this. But what if “this” changes again? What do I do, then?

Get used to it again, I guess. I’m not sure what else I can do.

Well, I could run away again. I could always do that.

Yeah, because that worked out so well last time.

Previous performance doesn’t necessarily dictate future results. My main issue, I think, is that I really had no plans. I just left the house and walked. I had no end goals at all. I was just walking. I definitely won’t do that again. I learned my lesson there.

So it’s still a fair solution. If things get bad, I could always run away. Somewhere far, maybe Jotin or even further out to sea, to Dadansk. I’ve never been to either island. They’re in the same country as me. I know absolutely nothing about them. I’ll run away to Dadansk, then, where I know nothing. I’ll run away to Dadansk and die from exposure when no one lets me inside once winter hits.

Not the most productive thoughts. I need to reorient myself. Get a grip. This isn’t my present situation. I’m not running away from anything. Not right now, at least. I’m just grabbing breakfast. That’s all.

Things have changed, but it’s slow. This is a slow process. Who can really say what the result will be? Part of me is a little excited. Last night wasn’t bad, after all. It was just tiring. This whole week has been tiring. I’m thinking like a maniac because I’m so tired. That’s all. I’m not going to run away to Dadansk. Polly’s waiting for me to heat up the gravy.

Polly. Right.

She’s still sitting on her bed when I return, two bowls and a cup of coffee balanced precariously between my arms.

“Hi,” she says simply.

“Hi,” I reply. This is all fine. Probably. I’m crossing the threshold into her room and my heart is aching in the hollow space between my lungs.

“It’s getting cold out,” she says.

I set her bowl and mug on her nightstand. My throat swims somewhere near my gut, welded shut and pulsating.

She stands up, stretching her arms behind her back. “Come on. You wanna go out, right?”

I watch her walk past me, opening the glass doors to reveal a scant few feet of concrete patio. She cocks her head, offering an expectant expression.

I think about the porch I used to have when I lived with my father. The rotted boards by the lower left side. The rocking chair. How we’d watch the sun set, casting the world in dusty orange hues.

Outside, here, lies the sunrise. And the world is pink with uneasy promise.

“Waldi?”

I shake my head, gathering the bowls and mug again. “Um. Yeah. Thanks.”

\- - -

I lay on the couch, eyes stuck on the stale flowers adorning the vase in the corner of the foyer. I had been staring at them for a good half hour, but I couldn’t describe anything of their aspect other than that they were pale blue. I couldn’t say how many flowers or what sorts of flowers. It was a mass of material that my eyes fixated on because it was there. That was all.

Howie’s voice rose in the other room, a frantic sort of energy buzzing along its edges. He was quite distraught, lately. “That’s _not what I mean,”_ I heard him grind out from between his teeth.

Polly responded, words thick with some strange tremor. I was deaf to it all. It meant nothing to me. I stared at the flowers. Pale blue. They were dead. They’d been dead for a while. I decided that pulling flowers from the dirt was an act of outrageous cruelty. It was senseless. It achieved nothing.

They both sounded so unhappy.

I stared at the flowers and I felt nothing for them. Howie was quite upset, had been inconsolable since he’d had to dump water over my head for the wedding. There was something on my mind as I stared across the Hochsprach foyer at that dead bouquet. I don’t remember what it was, though. I don’t remember what happened before or after anything. Only this singular moment. Staring at blue flowers.

“I don’t know what you want from me.” Polly’s tone trembled. “I just. I don’t know. I really don’t. What do you think I should do? Just tell me, Howie. Just tell me what you think the right thing to do is, then.”

He said something I couldn’t hear. I didn’t care, anyways.

“Well, you seem to have answers for everything else! Look. I know I’m a fuck-up, okay? I’m the worst. I’m fucking awful. I _get it,_ okay?”

“That’s _not what I_ ** _mean,”_** he hissed. “You know that’s not what I mean. Why the hell do you have to make it about you? He’s been catatonic for the past two days and all you can talk about is how bad you feel about yourself.”

“I _know!”_

I stared at the flowers. Then I rolled over on the couch, pressing my nose into the upholstery. It smelled like a house that I grew up in but never got to live in. I don’t remember what I was thinking about in that moment. I don’t remember. I really don’t remember. I have no memory other than pressing my face into the couch.

That’s all.

\- - -

“This is nice.” I rest my forearms on the balcony railing.

Polly lifts an eyelid to glance at me before closing it again. She nestles back against the singular lawn chair, rusted metal whining. “It’s okay.”

I watch cars crawl by on the street below us. Black cars. Always black cars. The wind ruffles my hair, cold with morning mist. “I’m worried,” I say.

“You’re always worried.”

She isn’t wrong. Well, maybe she is. Sometimes I’m too numb to be worried.

The autumnal air is abrasive. It’s wet and heavy like a cold tongue. Back home, it was always arid. It rained so infrequently. I take a deep breath, hold it in the hollow of my mouth. I wonder if it’s worth discussing.

“I’m afraid things won’t work out.”

Polly sighs.

“What if everything ends up worse?” leaves my mouth, gaining speed with each subsequent word. “What if something feels bad and I hurt you or you hurt me and everything just--”

“It’s not like things just happen,” she says. “You know, like. We have control over our own actions. We just need to communicate and stuff.”

Communicate. Right. That’s a very sensible response. It’s mature. My heart fumbles with this sentiment. “I’m not sure how to do that.”

“We’re doing it right now. It doesn’t need to be scary.”

This doesn’t feel like communicating. It just feels like talking.

“I’m just glad we’re trying.” Polly sighs again, ragged. She must be tired. I’m partially responsible for that tiredness. “That’s enough for me. Okay?”

“Okay,” I say limply.

“It’s not like I’m not scared too,” she says. I don’t know why she’s informing me of this. I know she’s scared. I realized she was scared, last night. Polly’s scared. What is she scared of? _Myself,_ she’d said. _Myself._ “I’m super scared. But I don’t want to talk about it right now. I just want to finish my coffee.”

Okay. So communication can wait. Polly’s the one with the plan, it seems. _Myself._ I trust in that. I have no choice. Maybe I do, though. Things don’t ‘just happen.’ It feels like they do, though. I can see disaster slotting into place in slow motion, my hands idle by my sides, unable and disallowed to reach out.

“I can’t believe Sofie was right,” Polly mumbles. It doesn’t sound like it was meant for me.

“About what?” I ask anyways.

She mumbles something else. Then she says, “She just talked to me, once, about how we needed to bite the bullet and... I don’t want to be crude, okay, it’s barely seven in the morning.”

My neck flushes an embarrassing color at a million implications I won’t verbalize.

“--That makes it sound a lot worse than it actually was. She just thought you needed to be more assertive, which is _stupid_ because she didn’t even know you at the time. Look, I don’t understand her thought process at all. So don’t ask.”

I grip the metal railing, the cold stinging my palms. “Ah. Me neither. I still don’t get why Schotek shared your translation of my story.”

“Sofie has a lot of dumb ideas,” she answers. It isn’t an answer at all. “Everybody here does.”

Dumb ideas. I’ve had more than enough of those myself. I can smell coffee. The faint scent of the gravy we ate. I don’t want to rock the boat. Ship stains. I rub my fingers over my knuckles, skin thin and strained. “Maybe they do. I don’t really know many people around here.”

“Me neither.”

I scrunch my eyes closed.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” she says. I hear her shift, chair whining. “I don’t think she’s going to try anything else. I mean. I’d hope so, at least. She’s infinitely stupid, though, so who knows.”

“Okay,” I say. It comes out more limply than I would have preferred.

“Her and her friends are all academic whatevers, you know? I mean it. I really wouldn’t worry about it. They’re all relatively harmless. --Well, except for Beschmi, but that’s... She doesn’t count. Most of them are just pretty thoughtless; that’s really the worst of it.”

“Sharing my story wasn’t very harmless,” I murmur. I don’t really know for certain, though. I’ve experienced no consequences. Polly doesn’t think it was harmless, though, so I trust in that.

“No,” she agrees. She’s quiet. Then she says, “But I don’t think she really understands the things she does. She’s never been nailed for censorship before. Those guys are real creeps; I don’t want to deal with them.” I hear her move again, the chair rattling and squeaking in irritation. “Sorry that this patio sucks.”

“No, I really do think it’s nice.” I open my eyes, looking to the side. Polly sits in the lawn chair, lips flat. Her hands are cupped around her coffee mug. She offers no reaction. “Um. I, ah. I just like being outside like this, I think.”

She offers a noncommittal noise.

I turn my eyes back to the street below. Polly’s apartment is too high to jump from, especially with how this balcony is situated. There’s really only one reasonable exit from this apartment--the front door. I guess it doesn’t matter, regardless. Just idle thoughts. Now I know for certain. Balcony is a no-go. I have wondered about it.

I hear the lawn chair creak, metal scraping against the floor. The sound of porcelain tapping against cement.

“I guess it’s nice,” she agrees, voice louder. “But I wish it were warmer.”

Her hand lands on the railing, nestled next to mine. Our skins sit together like two birds on a telephone wire. I breathe out, feeling my expelled air weakly grace my knuckles.

“I like the cold,” I say, my mouth rubbery.

She hums. “Yeah, you told me you were jealous of me, since my birthday’s in the fall.”

“I told you that?”

“Sure. A while ago. I don’t remember when. I was fifteen, sixteen? Around then.”

I stare at the ground between us dumbly. “I don’t remember that.”

The air beside me shifts as she shrugs. “I do. I remember a lot.”

“Me too,” I say. “Just not that one, I guess.”

“I wish I had a high sun birthday,” she says. “I like the way the air smells in summer.”

“Here or back home?” I ask.

“Both.”

Both. The air smells so different here, though. I wonder if it’s possible to like two different things at once.

Polly rests her hand over mine, palm warm and soft. It’s like my fingers are under a small, heavy blanket. There’s an accidental, simple sentiment in the contact. Something in me feels a wobbling sickness at the sight.

I open my mouth, but there’s nothing I can really say. My breath aches in my chest, vibrating.

I leave the morning air alone.

“I’ve got to get ready for work,” Polly says casually, as though nothing is happening. It’s a practiced casualness that isn’t casual at all. Something shudders at the tail end of her speech.

I don’t speak.

“I was thinking,” she says, “maybe you could come with me?”

“Huh?”

“To the university.” She’s looking at the street below us. “I still haven’t taken you, right? It’s a nice campus. You could see my office.”

“Oh.” I swallow. Polly’s office. This is an invitation. An invitation to a place I have no business occupying. “I, um... If you want.”

“You could walk around, check out the buildings. The engineering building is actually a national heritage site.”

That doesn’t really matter to me. I’ve seen buildings before.

“Be ready in forty minutes?” she asks me.

“Um.” My eyes stray to her fingers, pale and thin. They look so frail. I’ve never seen Bismaché University, not even in a picture. My awareness of it exists only in a very conceptual sense. Bismaché University is the institution that took Polly and Howie away from Kolnosk. That’s as far as my understanding extends. But Polly is definitely trying, if she’s inviting me to this forbidden promised land. I... It’s quite nice of her, I think, even if I’m not especially excited by the prospect. “Yeah. That sounds good, actually.”

Her hand offers a quick squeeze, pressure swallowing my bones, before she lets go.

I listen to her open and close her bedroom door. The wet wind brushes coldly over my knuckles.

\- - -

“It’s a lot nicer than the rest of the city, right?”

“I guess.” My fingers form fists in my coat pockets. A breeze runs over us, ruffling my hair in an irritating motion. From the outside, the university campus is as gray as all the other buildings in Bismaché. Gray may as well be the city’s official color. I don’t need to glance at the sky to know rain is threatening to pelt our heads at any minute. That’s how it always is.

Polly offers me a smile. It does little to appease my apathy. Still, I appreciate the effort. Strands of hair cling to her right cheek, stubborn against the wind. I burrow my hands further into my pockets.

“Thanks for taking me,” I say.

She reaches up to wipe her face. “Well, it’s fall break, so I figured now would be a good time. Class is out for the week, so the only people hanging out on campus are university and student employees.”

So they at least have fall break here, too. We had fall break for school back in Kuk. It coincided with the height of harvesting season. I never had to worry about anything like that, though; the dirt on our property couldn’t birth anything less hardy than mountain grass and my father bought bales of hay from the Efflers. ...Well, _I_ bought bales of hay from the Efflers. They would just drive up the winding road, truck huffing like an angry dog, and dump it by the stable. I’d stop by the next morning with the money, slip it under their porch rug on my way to school or town or whatever it was I did in the mornings. Who knows?

There are no farms around here, so I don’t really know why they have fall break, exactly, but I’ll take it. Less people is always better. It’s comforting to know Polly cares about my preferences. Or it should be. I don’t feel comforted, but I do acknowledge that the concept should be comforting.

“I’ve got to meet with this visiting research professor at the linguistics building in an hour,” she says, “but first I’ve got to drop off some papers at my office. I figured you could tour campus when I’m talking to him. Or you could just sit outside the room. Your choice.”

“Okay.”

“Of course, I’ll walk you around before I’ve got to go,” she continues. “We can see the engineering building and stuff.”

I follow her down the sidewalk, between two dour buildings that look identical. They look more like holding cells than classrooms or offices or whatever they’re supposed to house.

“Student housing,” she supplies, gesturing to them. “Dorm rooms.”

“Oh.” I glance up at them again. What uninviting structures. I imagine the bedrooms as cubicles, white walls with a single bed and a desk behind each nondescript door.

“And up ahead are the professors’ offices.” She points to her left, down a pathway shouldering frail bushes leading to a similarly depressing structure. “Don’t tell anyone, but some professors actually sleep there, I think. At least, Dr. Rilken brought in a couch and I always see him around there, no matter the house, so...”

I don’t know whom I’d tell, regardless. I don’t know a Dr. Rilken. I’ve never called anyone “Doctor” in my life. I don’t think I know anyone with a doctorate. Does Polly have a doctorate? I don’t even know. This aspect of her life is so divorced from me.

“They’re putting up more security measures,” she says, reaching into her satchel, “because I guess there’s been some muggings close to campus? I’m not sure. I really wish this place didn’t extend into east-side.”

I watch her tug her keys out of the bag, flipping them between her fingers.

“So you won’t catch me falling asleep around here. I hate staying here any longer than I have to, to be honest. I’m not the kind of person who likes working.”

Does anyone like working? That’s such a strange sentiment to express aloud. Maybe professors like their jobs; I wouldn’t know.

Polly stops before a set of gray steps. Everything is gray. “You with me?”

I blink. “Huh?”

“Well. You just seem really quiet. Are you listening?”

“I’m listening,” I say.

She just looks at me, hand sliding absently over a metal railing. I don’t know what she’s thinking. I very rarely do. I rarely know what’s happening in anyone’s head, though.

I shift on my feet, feeling my shoes slide against my socks. They’ve always been slightly too big. They’re hand-me-downs from Howie that I still haven’t grown into. I’m nineteen. My growth-spurts are over. “Um. Sorry. I’m just distracted, I guess. I always am, aren’t I? I’ve been listening. I hope you stay safe here. I’ve heard that east-side has gangs or something like that.”  
She cocks her head. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Howie told me.”

She hums. I can’t divine much from that. “Well, I’m fine on campus. I never go further east than here; everything else I do is at the center of the city. Anyways. Sorry, I just... I was just checking in. I know this is a place you’ve never been, so.”

So what?

She clears her throat, jingling her keys as she reaches out. “I just worry about you. Thanks for coming with me, today. Sorry you’ll be alone for a bit, but it’ll only be an hour or so.”

“Thank you for inviting me,” I reply, slipping past her as she holds the door open.

There are paintings on the walls, men wearing strange cowls and hoods in every single one. Orange-striped, blue and white polka dots, solid black. They all look impassively outward, their imitation eyes judging me and finding me unsatisfactory.

“Just some important professors emeritus,” Polly explains. “Stuffy old retirees. I don’t know them.”

I don’t know what a professor emeritus is. Sounds important.

“Are you a professor?” I ask. “I mean. Do you teach?”

Polly looks at me, befuddled. “What? No. I mean. Sometimes I monitor lab sessions, but I don’t teach. I’m a Linguistics Consultancy and Multilingual Translation Research Curator.”

I have absolutely no idea what that means.

“My office is on the first floor, here,” she says, swerving down a hallway to the right. The hallways zig-zag awkwardly, circling in on themselves in a labyrinthine structure. We pass room 110, then immediately come upon room 145 as our hallway twists to a sharp angle, offering three branching paths. “For fire safety,” she explains as she catches my dismayed expression. “That’s what they say, anyways. I guess this shape is good for fire safety.”

“How do you find your way around?”

“You don’t.”

Well. That’s not exactly comforting. Maybe firemen shouldn’t be consulted on architecture.

“It’s not far, though.” She reaches out for my hand before her fingers freeze in midair. They drop without comment. “I’m 167.”

I stare at the space her hand had briefly occupied. The awareness of our situation sits fuzzy and heavy in my brain, an unreal thing. Polly and I touched each other, last night. That did happen. It hardly feels true. Polly and I stood on her balcony, today. It certainly happened. Polly touched my hand and it didn’t feel bad. I don’t know what it felt like, but it didn’t feel bad. I...

It’s been a very long week.

I blink, eyelids sticky. It wouldn’t be bad if she had grabbed my hand. I understand that. It really wouldn’t. It would be okay.

It still feels strange, though. I’m not sure. I have horrible emotions swimming in the deepest channels of myself, I know. That’s why this is all so complicated. If I want to change, I’ll have to fish them out with my bare hands. I don’t want to do that.

No. Not today, at least.

“167,” Polly announces, wrapping her knuckles on the door. No one answers. She fiddles with her keyring before pressing into the door after a click. It swings inward.

Polly’s office is very messy. Papers scattered everywhere, some hanging off the cliffside of her barely visible desk, waiting to collapse into the pool of other papers below.

“Oh,” quietly leaves my strangled throat.

“Don’t judge,” she says, face pointed away from me. “I’m super busy, so it’s been a total wreck lately. Hoknase is working me so hard I basically just come in here to take a power nap.”

“No judgment here,” I murmur, scanning the rest of the dismal scene. There are five cardboard coffee cups on the desk. This is upsetting enough, until I realize that there are a multitude of other identical cups resting on her tiny window sill and her cluttered bookcase. There’s a whole cluster of them on the floor by her chair, arranged like some modern fairy ring.

I feel as though I’m witnessing the culmination of caffeine and misery. It’s...a lot to take in, admittedly.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Huh?” She drops her bag gracelessly on the chair, which whines under the abuse. “Yeah? I’m just tired a bunch. This visiting professor is a huge pain and he speaks Villichian like shit, so his translations are garbage but he thinks he’s better than me and... Whatever. It’s just. You know, it’s how this sort of stuff is.”

“I really don’t know. I don’t know a lot about university.”

She doesn’t say anything to that for a moment, staring at her bookcase. “Yeah. Well, you could always go to university. I really think you’d do well.”

Casting my gaze over her disaster scene of an office, I sincerely do not have any desire to go to university.

She catches my eyes, lips screwed to the side in displeasure. It smooths out quickly. Her arms flop at her sides. “Whatever. Maybe this isn’t the best advertisement.”

I wonder where, exactly, she takes a “power nap” in this disarray. On the chair? Maybe she just kicks the papers and coffee cups off the desk and curls up there. It isn’t out of the question, judging by the floor. 

“Come on. I’ve dropped off my bag and you got more than enough time to see how awful my office is. I’ll show you around for a little bit before I’ve got to meet up with Hoknase.” She offers me a smile, a thin sliver of teeth peering at me from between her lips. “You’ve _got_ to see the engineering building. It’s the best thing on campus.”

\- - -

The engineering building is as ugly as everything else in Bismaché. It’s a concrete slab, constituted of other concrete slabs. _It’s dynamic,_ Polly had said, sheepishly trying to pay lip-service to its design. _Sleek, modern, futuristic. You know?_

Maybe long, concrete pillars attached to long, concrete boxes are sleek. I wouldn’t know. It would be overly charitable to call the outcroppings “columns.” They’re just...pillars. And they’re everywhere, in increasingly baffling positions that seem to hold no structural purpose. Angled chunks of concrete extend from the earth to the highest reaches of the building, like overly redundant wire supports on a bridge. It gives the entire building a spider-like appearance, wiry legs blocking large portions of the university’s sidewalks with an irritating insistence. The windows are all tinted black and deep green for whatever reason, like beady eyes begging for respite.

Quite frankly, it’s hideous.

Objects as ugly as this are a rarity, it’s true. I can understand, looking it solemnly, why it’s a national heritage site. It’s even worse than the Remembrance Monument. This building is, without a doubt, the ugliest building I have ever taken in with my eyes.

After Polly had ended the tour at the linguistics building, shooing me away from some nondescript office door with an apologetic smile, I had no choice but to drift back to this spot. The engineering building exudes a powerful, primal magnetic property.

It’s hard not to feel out of place, even ignoring the impossible-to-ignore monolith that currently stands before me. Polly is so smart and she works with such smart people. I’m nothing like them. Everyone I saw--even in the pictures and paintings--looked so smart and important. I’m not totally sure what she and her visiting professor are working on, but I’m certain it’s far beyond my understanding.

Maybe it doesn’t matter if I’m not smart, but it makes me anxious. I hate to make a poor impression. I’m an extension of Polly’s reputation, after all. Even if she says it doesn’t work like that here, I think it’s fair to say that any husband is an extension of his wife’s reputation. Or vice versa, I guess.

 _You’ll be fine,_ she’d told me, hand heavy as it patted on my shoulder. My bones still ache with the weight. _Just walk around for a bit. Or find a place to sit down. No one’ll bother you, I promise. Seriously--nobody talks to anybody, here, and it’s break anyways. There’s hardly anybody. We can meet up in front of the engineering building. You’ll be able to find that anywhere on campus._

She wasn’t wrong. I really could find this building, no matter what. It is certainly...distinctive. The height of Argrean architecture, apparently.

_I really think it’s good to get out, you know? I just... It’s nice to be out here with you, and I think this place is a great spot in the city. It isn’t like a stadium; it’s practically the opposite._

It isn’t the opposite.

Regardless, it is an area of refuge from the usual apathetic bustle of Bismaché’s foot traffic. I do appreciate that, at the very least.

I seat myself on a bench by a large trash bin, the metal slats cold against my butt. The air is getting colder and colder. Autumn is like that. Hardly anyone is outside. It’s fall break.

Overall, I’m as unimpressed as I thought I would be. Just a whole lot of buildings, with one significant exception. Most things don’t impress me; I don’t have the proper perspective. I’ve had very few life experiences.

My shoulder feels weird. She didn’t hit me; she just touched me. My shoulder still feels weird. I wonder if this will eventually become normal. Do I want it to become normal? Is that the hope? This is all still so new. Everything is uncomfortable. Nothing hurts, though.

“Excuse me.”

I look up, locking eyes with a tight-mouthed woman. She’s very small. Shorter than me, probably. Not many people are shorter than me. Her hair offers a few artificial inches, but I find myself a bit taken aback by how tiny she is. _Hummingbird bones,_ my brain supplies. _Do you remember that one story--Howie told it during Wax Festival, when you had the bad rainstorm--the story about the dead bird that..._

“Um.” I compose myself, feet grinding into the scant dirt. “Hello, yes.”

“Are you alright?”

I sit up, setting my shoulders back. “Of course. Thank you for the concerns.”

She narrows her eyes, pupils darting over my face. My neck creaks as I immediately turn my gaze to my shoes.

“Waldi Hoffenthal?”

My eyelids tug into a blink as I look back up at her. Camera shutter. The engineering building casts a shadow down her face in solid stripes. She knows my name? She knows my name. Do I know this woman? I don’t know this woman, but she knows my name somehow. “Yes, that’s, ah. That’s my name.”

She nods, pursing her lips. There’s an expectant look on her face.

“...Sorry, do I know of you?”

She shakes her head. “No.

“Oh.” We just stay where we are, me on the bench and her standing a few paces away. I don’t know this woman. Polly’s in the linguistics building, a three-minute walk away.

She inclines her head, considering me. “Do you like campus? You seem interested in the architecture building,” she says after a moment.

I sit up, uncertain how to respond. My brain clicks slowly. The honest answer may not be appropriate. “It’s...interesting,” I settle on. Because it is. It’s a testament to the hubris of architects, which is--without a doubt--interesting on its own merit.

I open my mouth to add something to that statement, but nothing comes out. I don’t know what else to say, really. I was never one for small talk, nor was I ever one for speaking to strangers. I had hoped, as always, that I would be invisible out here. With no one around, distracted by this outstanding building, I suppose I let my guard down.

“I’m a big fan.”

I blink, shoes skidding against the sidewalk beneath the bench as my body jolts. “I’m sorry?”

“I’ve read your work.”

“My--” The air stops in my mouth, refusing to exit.

She folds her arms over her chest, offering a polite smile. “Your stories.”

“I. Um. Oh.”

She’s read my stories, she means. Right. Right, I write stories. I do do that.

...She’s _read_ my _stories._

She’s read my stories. What a strange awareness. I’m not sure what to call it. Not flattering, but something else. Something more uncomfortable. A ghost of an emotion settles in my gut. I feel thirteen again, in a vague sense, stuffing crumpled carbon copy sheets into Polly’s hands, sick to my stomach. It doesn’t feel real at all. I nod my head, regardless. “Thank you for reading my stories.”

She cocks her head, offering a blank expression in turn. “....Thank you for writing them?”

I swallow, my tongue a dry chrysalis in my mouth. I can’t believe I’m talking to some stranger who’s read my stories. Of course, I’ve met Schotek. Schotek has read my stories, but Schotek is a friend of Polly’s. I would assume Polly forced her to read them, or introduced her to them, or something. This is a stranger. Not a pity read.

“I’m part of a book club,” she says, looking past my head for a moment, contemplating. “Um, we read your stories recently. It’s just neat to see you, here. I didn’t know you were at the university?”

A...book club? A club is a group of people that come together for a common interest or purpose, right? Books?

“I’m the president, actually,” she amends. “Of the book club. We just finished _The Hunter_. I’m on my way to our club meeting. This is kind of really weird, huh?”

Weird is an understatement. She’s read my stories--this total stranger has read my stories. A _club_ has read my stories. 

...How did this woman even recognize me, anyways? That’s so strange, isn’t it? Even if she’s read my writing. “Sorry, ah. How do you know of me?”

“Well, you’re a writer,” she says.

“No, sorry, I mean that. Um. You knew who I am through to looking only?”  
She stares. Then she nods. “Oh. I see. Well, I just noticed your accent.” I cringe. “It’s not very common and we’re at university, so... I just thought maybe it was you.”

That’s a very strange thing, isn’t it? Walking up to a stranger, asking him if he’s an author just because of an accent? That doesn’t sound right to me. Maybe that’s normal in Bismaché, though. Lots of things are normal here that seem very strange to me.

“Are you giving a talk or something? Is that why you’re here?”

A talk? “What talk?” I ask. “Huh? Ah. No.”

She nods, pursing her lips. “We’re just getting coffee,” she says, hesitating. There’s something off in the lines of her face with the motion of her cheeks, but I can’t place it. There’s no sense in interrogating it. “Would you like to come? This is just such a cool--” Some word. “We’d love to meet you. Especially Komen.”

My thoughts skid to a halt. “Um,” I offer. Meet me? That doesn’t make much sense. No one should want to meet me. There must be something I’m missing.

A simple solution presents itself like a balm on my feverish brain. Ah, of course. I can’t go. Polly hasn’t told me I can grab coffee with this strange woman.

“I probably can’t,” I say. “I’m, um. Busy.”

She offers a pointed look at the bench I’m sitting on. Not an impolite look, but...well, it’s clear she doesn’t believe me. I really shouldn’t be talking to an unknown woman without Polly, right? An unknown woman who goes up to random Kolnoskan men, asking them if they’re Waldi Hoffenthal.

I don’t know. I’m not used to this sort of social situation. Are there steps I can take to rectify this? Maybe if I know her, it’s less bad. I’m not sure. No matter what I do, here, it seems rude. I’d really hate to be rude to someone who has read my stories.

My teeth saw into my lower lip. “--Sorry, ahm. Who are you?”

“Oh. Yeah, I should probably introduce myself, right? It’s weird if it’s just a total stranger talking to you about her book club. My bad.” She extends her hand. “Patricia.”

I stare at her fingers. “Patricia...?”

“Patty’s fine,” she says. “I don’t like formal stuff.”

“Uh.” I trip over my own tongue, swollen and nervous. “Sorry, but your full name?”

“Patty is fine,” she repeats, retracting her hand. “Really.”

Not knowing her full name is certainly troubling. There’s power in names, or so I’ve been told. My old grade 4 teacher used to assign human names to all of her flower bulbs, she once told me, because it made them grow faster. Riva Elnke. I wonder where she is now. Probably dead. She was already old when I knew her.

Not knowing this woman’s full name puts me in a difficult position. I don’t have anything to call her.

“Um, we always try to read challenging stories.” Patty Something stuffs her hands into her coat pockets. “My friend, Komen, she really loves your work. We all do. Sorry, this sounds super weird. You probably get this all the time. I shouldn’t be bothering you.”

Why would I get this all the time? “No bother,” I assure her. “Thank you very much for reading my stories. It means so much for me.”

Patty Something pulls a strange face, there and gone in a moment. “Huh,” she supplies. “Well, since you’re not here to give a talk, would you like to get coffee with our club? We’ll cover you.”

I don’t know what that means at all. “Thanks for this offer,” I say. “It’s very polite and good. I am waiting for my wife, presently. And I have no money.”

She turns her head to either side before peering at me with a befuddled expression. “I said we’d pay for you,” she says. “Where is your wife?”

“She’s in work.”

She frowns. “Your wife works here? How long are you waiting?”

I shrug, a liquid motion. “Um. Maybe for one hour? Or such? I don’t know.”

“Well, the offer stands. We’ll be about forty minutes, if you’d like to stop by. Is something wrong? You seem uncomfortable.”

“Kind of,” I admit. “You’re being very, um. Ambiguince? About this. Sorry, I don’t... I don’t understand why you would want that I come into books club. Just to talk? I don’t understand that.”

She doesn’t say anything, staring at me with an uncomprehending expression. Her fingers jitter in her pockets. I said something very stupid.

What is happening? Who would want to speak to me? Who would _ever_ want to speak to me? Who would ever read anything I’ve written? I’m invisible. I may as well not exist to anyone except Polly and her list of contacts. This situation doesn’t make any sense to me. It all forms a knotted miasma in the core of my abdomen.

“Patty,” a man greets, walking up behind her. I hadn’t heard his footsteps at all. His skin is ashen in the overcast light, eyes silvery like swimming fish scales. Tall and thin like a light pole. He scratches at the side of his poorly shaven face, lips tugging. “What’s the hold up?”

She mutters something.

“Ah.” His eyes flick to me. “Waldi Hoffenthal? Hi there.”

“Hi,” I reply.

She says something else to him, too quietly for me to hear.

“Ah,” he says again. He fulls turns his attention to me. He takes a preparatory breath. “Hi. I’m Olli Omschen.”

He has a Kolnoskan name. He’s speaking Kolnoskan to me. It’s stilted slightly, like a crooked doorframe that still holds out the cold.

 _That’s good,_ my brain supplies with an immature hopefulness. _He’s like us. He’s our kind._

I think of Polly’s sour face when Oschwall first spoke, white teeth and polite eyes in the dusty library meeting room.

My fingers curl in my lap. “What do you want?” I ask him flatly.

He cocks his head, face blank, before he bobs his head. “You’re a bit rude, huh?”

“Ah. Not my intention.” I backtrack, lips pulling. “But I’m just very confused. I’m not used to other people, sorry. Or attention. I don’t really understand what your friend is saying to me.”

He hums. “We’re part of an organization with concentrate interests. Your works have piqued her interests. We’re all going to drink coffee. She wants to know if you want to have coffee with us. We’re discussing you, actually. It would be very cool to have you partake in the discussing.”

I blink. “It’s a book club, right?”

“Right. Did I misspeak? Sorry-- Not a native speaker. But basically am. I don’t practice a lot.”

That’s not the problem. “I don’t care how you talk,” I say. “That’s not the issue. I’m waiting for my wife, right now. I don’t think I can attend your meeting without her permission.”

He offers a blank look before turning to Patty Something. He murmurs to her. It doesn’t sound like Standard. It’s too quiet to tell, though. I don’t know how two people can speak so softly; I can hardly see his lips move. They’re a rather strange couple, too, aren’t they? They look as opposite as humans can look from one another.

“Sorry,” I say, “but I really should talk to my wife, first.”

Omschen shrugs, looking at me as Patty Something replies to him. He grunts. “We’re just offering,” he says. “We’re talking about _The Hunter._ We all really loved it. It’s your latest story, right?”

It isn’t, but they clearly don’t know that. “Something’s getting published next month,” I answer.

“Huh. Congrats. What’s it called?”

“I don’t know the translated titles, sorry. --Look, I don’t... Um, I don’t know anything about book clubs or coffee or anything, okay? You don’t want to talk to me, trust me. I’m rather disappointing.”

Patty Something turns to him, but he doesn’t turn to offer her a translation or explanation. He only looks at me, humming. “Well, we like your stories. It’s just a polite offer. Patty said you’ve just been sitting here for some while. It’s cold out. Maybe you’d prefer to be inside?”

“You’re being very insistent about this,” I say.

He offers a neutral smile.

“I’m not trying to be rude. I don’t understand what you want from me, though. I’m really just trying to wait for my wife.”

He plucks at the sleeves of his jacket, letting out a brief whistle. “Well, you’re quite a writer. It’s not everyday that someone can see people such like you out and about. Cliff Eument actually mentioned you in Ulchen Megdamesch’s _Interview Hour._ He talked about... _I’ll Try Anger,_ I think it’s called in the Kolnoskan?”

 _“I’ll Try Violence,_ ” I mutter absently.

Omschen looks at me expectantly. He doesn’t have a friendly face, but he doesn’t have an unfriendly face either. Not everyone can look like Franzi.

“Well, either way, you need to speak with my wife, Polly Hochsprach,” I tell him. “You understand, right? I can’t make the decision to speak at your book club. My wife makes that decision.”

Patty Something tugs on his sleeve, frowning. He turns and murmurs to her. It’s definitely not Standard.

Weird.

“Is that really how it works in Kolnosk?” she asks me. “You can’t just get coffee without your wife or what?”

“It’s not,” Omschen says.

This is such a surreal situation. The only person I know who likes my stories is Polly, and Polly didn’t like the latest one. They haven’t read the latest one. They’ve read _The Hunter._ And the others. They’ve read the rabbit story, which is deeply embarrassing. Maybe I don’t want to speak for more reasons than just Polly.

“Just have some coffee and chat?” she tries again. “Less than half an hour. Hardly any time. That’s fine, right? It would really mean a lot. That isn’t a big thing. You just seem very shy. If you really want us to go, that’s fine, we will. But please don’t feel like you need to say no.”

I open my mouth.

“It’s a formal request,” Omschen says in his slightly off Kolnoskan, “that we’re impositioning. Are you rejecting it?”

Nothing comes out.

“If you reject to our extension of goodwill,” he continues, “you’re rejecting to it on your wife’s behalf, naturally, correct?”

He’s right, of course. That’s exactly how it works. I’m an extension of Polly’s reputation. The awkward family photos, the shape of Schotek’s lips as they formed distasteful words, Nene Hochsprach’s flinty eyes shining down on me as I drooled and sweated into the dirt at Alchmenk. A thousand embarrassments, countless others I’m totally ignorant of my role in. A total liability. _You’ve contributed nothing to the Hochsprach estate._ That’s me. I’m that.

And these people _like_ my stories. The thought makes me ill for whatever reason. It’s a strange feeling. A little exciting, too. A responsibility, as well. I feel like I owe them for bothering to read anything I’ve put to paper. I must. No one ever bothers with me. This is so incredible. I can’t believe that this is happening. People in front of me who read my stories.

That doesn’t mean I want to speak to them, though.

“It’s fine,” Omschen says mildly. “I’d just like knowledge.”

Cold prickles above my eye. I blink, lashes returning sticky. Cold on my cheek. Cold on my nose. Rain. It’s starting to rain. I can’t wait outside.

Patty Something’s lips split open, revealing a bright smile.

I sigh, standing up.

\- - -

“It’s _not_ a ghost story.” Howie paused, hefting the lantern in his right hand. “Well. I guess it’s kind of a ghost story.”

“You only tell ghost stories,” Polly muttered, her cheek pressed into the windowsill.

He shrugged. “Well, it’s Wax Festival.”

“Yeah, but you tell ghost stories outside of Wax Festival.”  
I tucked my legs under my stool, pressing my hands against my knees until I could feel an aching pressure through the hollows of my palms. In the dying autumn nights, the Hochsprach foyer was a cozy refuge from the cold. The wood stove’s smell, smoky and acrid, was a soothing reminder of where I was. Inside, at the Hochsprach’s, away from Mount Echmi.

“We ready?” Polly asked, sitting up. She had a red stripe down her cheek, an imprint from the wood. Fifteen years old, with knotted hair and bleary eyes, she looked like an adult to me at the time.

“Yeah,” Howie said. “You wanna get the door?”

“Sure.” She stood, cracking her back. The vertebrae popped like firecrackers. “You ready, Waldi?”

I nodded, unclasping my hands from my legs, standing stiffly.

“Your story better not be too scary for him.”

Howie scoffed. “You mean too scary for _you._ He’s never scared of my stories.”

“Oh you’re full of it!” she whined, unlatching the door. “The only reason Wally’s not scared is because he knows I’m there to protect him.”

He shot me a humored look, but he didn’t reply to her insistence. We both knew she was deathly afraid of ghosts.

It was curious. I believed in ghosts and Polly didn’t. I supposed that made them scarier for her for whatever reason. Or maybe Polly did believe in ghosts, but she wouldn’t admit. I didn’t know. I tended to take Polly at her word--I took everyone at one’s word--but maybe I could afford to be more discerning. It was a silly thing to lie about, though.

The wax candle inside the lantern’s hull was beginning to smell, cloying and plastic. I could taste it on my molars, rubbing against the back of my tongue.

Polly opened the door and the wind hissed at us.

I loved cold nights in autumn. Walking in step with Polly and her brother, I felt a brittle sense of security. Polly was right; I did feel protected. I wasn’t really sure why. If a creature came out at us in the woods--supernatural or otherwise--I doubted Polly or Howie could do much to ward it off. We were all wiry, ashen children. More bones than meat. Hardly palatable.

But walking with Polly and her brother, I felt a warmth in my throat, buoyant and careful. I was grateful, I supposed. It was very kind of them to let me tag along for Wax Festival. These were the best moments of my life. I held them close to me as I lived them, like a child who held a candy under his tongue for fear of it melting too quickly. I savored these moments as discreetly as I could manage, so that in my more miserable hours I could pretend that they had never ended and I was still here, walking in the autumn air.

Howie stopped. I looked up to find glittering diamonds in the distance. Eyes.

Polly stood stiff as a corpse. I stepped up to her side, squinting. The lantern made it more difficult to see the shapes in the darkness, since our eyes couldn’t adjust. “What’s that,” she said with a woolly mouth.

Howie didn’t say anything.

The shape ambled closer to us, legs swinging below it.

“It’s a person,” I mumbled. Either a person or...well, it was a person. It didn’t have a gaping mouth. I would have recognized the gaping mouth, even with the lantern clouding my sight. It didn’t have marble eyes, either. I would have seen the marble eyes, blue and sunken.

It shifted closer to our still bodies, growing larger.

I thought about monsters and the forms they took. I refused to name any of them, right now, even if it was night. This wasn’t a monster. I knew all of the monsters. I read everything about monsters; I couldn’t help it. It was always good to be prepared. “Monster” was just a word for a human’s natural predator, after all. This wasn’t a monster, so it had to be a human.

...Well. It could be a ghost. Maybe. I doubted it. I’d never seen a ghost before. A real ghost, I meant. I’d seen fake ghosts plenty of times.

I wasn’t afraid of ghosts at all. Ghosts were immaterial, once-living humans. Ghosts seemed like such sad creatures, I thought.

It was a man. His eyes glistened wetly. He wore a gray uniform, pale and moon-like in the low light from the lantern. The frail flame flickered across his neck and chin, giving his face the appearance of a skull insignia. I thought of emetic labels in the Hochsprach kitchen, a fuzzy memory of Dienschon waggling his finger and laughing. _This’ll get you really sick. Better leave it to the adults’ discretion. It’s an emergency drink that’ll make you puke!_

“Hi,” the man said, coming to a stop. His voice was friendly, well-articulated. “You’re out late, kids.”

“We’re on our way to Wax Festival,” Howie told him.

“Oh,” he intoned, stepping back. “That makes a lot of sense. Alright.”

 _Alright?_ I didn’t understand why he felt the need to say that. Like he was giving us some sort of permission to walk around at night.

“Are we okay to go?” Howie asked. That was also strange.

Well. My eyes went from the black crown of the man’s head down to his scuffed black boots. He looked like some sort of policeman. If he was a policeman, I supposed it made sense. Maybe there was a road closed down or some sort of danger. Maybe he was patrolling or re-directing foot traffic. Or something.

“Oh. Yeah, of course. Sorry,” the policeman said. “Do you know the way from here?”

“Of course,” Polly snapped, stepping forward. “We know the way _everywhere._ We live here.”

The policeman just smiled, stepping to the side. “Have a nice night,” he said. “The air’s good for the festival, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Howie said over Polly’s scowl. “Thank you, sir.”

 _Sir._ I’d never called a man “sir” in my life. No man had ever warranted it, not even Dienschon or the mystic Ulmàk.

Speaking of the Ulmàk, he’d come by last Thursday for his usual Rites and Practices, waving that incense ball he hung from a stick as he paced along the perimeter of our crooked little house, mumbling strange non-sequiturs. I never understood why he did that. There must have been a reason. Privately, I had always assumed he was there to keep my mother’s ghost from coming inside. I didn’t know for certain; that’s just what my brain supplied in lieu of proper explanation.

But regardless, I had never called him “sir.” That would be...very strange. He was just the Ulmàk. No man around Kuk was a “sir.”

Polly was hissing like a mangy street cat after we had put the policeman a good number of paces behind us. “What the _hell,_ Howie?”

“It doesn’t help to cause conflict,” he said. “Polly, you’re so headstrong, it’s gonna get you in trouble someday.”

My eyes fixated on the dribbling wax in his lantern, mulling over the term. Head-strong. A strong head. Didn’t sound like an insult. Didn’t necessarily sound like a compliment, either. Was there such thing as a neutral adjective? I was doubtful.

 _“You’re_ gonna get in trouble someday,” she said, “letting them walk all over you.”

Howie just shook his head, the lantern swaying with the motion.

“He was Kolnoskan,” I mumbled.

“Yeah,” Polly said neutrally. “He was.”

“Most of the policemen I see aren’t Kolnoskan...”

Howie shrugged. “He wasn’t a cop. He was something else. He was a detective.”

“A detective?” I echoed.

“Yeah. A Special Detective. Uh. They come up, sometimes, I think. Mostly just to Rigàna. I’ve never seen one around here.”

“Gross,” Polly muttered.

My scalp prickled. I flinched, looking up into darkness. No stars. Clouds. Rain. Another drop smacked into my eyebrow. I frowned.

Polly slapped a hand to the top of her head. “Oh. Great. Just what we need to make this the _best_ Wax Festival ever.”

“It’s fine,” Howie said. “We’ll just drop the lantern in the river with the rest of them and go hang out by the post office.”

“But then we don’t get to send them off!”

“Polly, you always just sit by the post office every year anyways. It shouldn’t be a big deal to you.”

She huffed. “That’s just because it’s so cold...”

The cold was nice, though. I liked the cold. I liked it better than the heat, at least. When it was hot, I had to wear different clothes, bare skin where there once was armor. A fat droplet hit the crown of my head.

“I wish my birthday was in the fall,” I said, unbidden.

Polly snorted. “It’s _cold._ And my brother has to tell stupid ghost stories.”

“Good ghost stories,” Howie corrected her. “Classic ghost stories.”

“How’re they classics if you made them up?”

“Classics in the making.”

She groaned.

“And I’ve got to tell you this one. It’s true. I mean it. A true story. My best friend at university told it to me; it happened in his neighborhood. And it’s only _technically_ a ghost story. I don’t think it’s really one.”

“Technical means it is,” she muttered.

“It’s about a bird,” he started. “And don’t get on my case about animal death--the bird _starts_ dead, okay?”

\- - -

“Oh my-- _Look,”_ a woman says in a hushed tone, smiling. She leans over a crooked coffee table, her head turned toward another woman. They’re the only patrons in the coffeeshop. They are, I presume, the book club.

“Why don’t you go sit down?” Patty Something says to me in Standard. “I’ll grab drinks. What do you want?”

The drink menu about the barista swims in my vision, uninterpretable. I glance at it for what I hope appears to be a long enough time to seem like I read it. “Just some water,” I say. “Thanks.”

She frowns. “Seriously?”

“Um. Yes, please. Seriously. Thanks very much.” My eyes scour the walls, falling on a clock that reads half-past noon. Polly will be a while. I shouldn’t be here.

“Hi!” one of the book club members calls, slapping at the wood in excitement. I turn my attention toward her, gaze clinging to the wobbling motion of the table.

“Um. Hi,” I offer, walking toward an open stool.

“Komen Ilo.” She extends a hand. The other woman knocks at her shoulder and she just as quickly retracts her arm with a flustered smirk. “Your wife must be busy, huh?”

I blink.

“I’m a _huge_ fan,” Ilo says loudly, cheeks round and dimpled. She lightly smacks the table again, a juvenile drumming motion. “Um. Sorry. That sounds weird. Ah ha ha. I’m... I was the one who got the club to read you. I was hopeful, since Sofie said she knew you, but--”

“It’s a pleasure,” the other woman says smoothly. “I’m Lijuanne Mensk. I’m vice president of the club.”

How am I supposed to reply to any of this? Ilo keeps tapping at the table in a maddening rhythm. I can’t keep track of anything, their words slipping through my fingers like dry sand. I wish it weren’t raining outside. “Oh. Um. That’s nice.”

“I hope Patty wasn’t too--” She says a word I don’t know. “She can be very pushy, sometimes.”

I’m not sure what she said, exactly, so I can’t offer a satisfying response.

“Here you go,” Patty Something says, pushing a clear plastic cup in front of me. “Your water. You sure you don’t want coffee?”

I nod, reaching for it. “Thank you very much. I’m fine with the water. Thank you for buying it for me.”

“It didn’t cost anything.” She slides onto a stool. “Olli’s waiting for our coffees.”

“So! Cops.”

My cup of water clatters on the table at an embarrassing volume.

Ilo continues, oblivious to my fumble. “In _The Hunter,_ we were having an argument. A debate? An argument. You know, something like that. About the cop in your story! We thought the cop--Uwe Orgolosch--is ‘the hunter’ in the title. Not the other hunter, the one that’s a real hunter, I mean. It’s--” A long word.

I stare at her.

“We thought it was clever,” Mensk says. “But Olli doesn’t think that this is your... Sorry, I’m trying to think of a simple way to say it. Olli doesn’t think that the cop is the title hunter.”

“Um,” I supply.

Patty Something leans over the table, hands balled into fists under her torso. “Why do you need to say it simply? Because he’s not a native speaker?”

Mensk shoots her an unimpressed look. “I’m trying to be considerate.”

“My Standard is very poor,” I apologize. “Thank you for trying to speak so that I can understand.”

“You sound fine,” Patty Something says.

“So am I right?” Ilo’s voice rings in my ears. “About the cop? That’s he’s the hunter?”

“Is Omschen back with coffee yet?” I ask.

Mensk arches an eyebrow. It’s a rather Schotek-esque expression.

“Olli says the cop’s name means something in Kolnoskan,” Ilo continues. _“Misfortune,_ right?”

“Uh.” My eyes are trained on my plastic cup, droplets clinging below the lip. The water offers a warped reflection of the ceiling and our faces, shapes against shapes, bodies rendered abstract. “I... Yes? Yes.”

Sort of. I mashed the word for _unfortunate_ with a real Kolnoskan family name that’s phonetically similar. It...sounds better in context. I’ll defend that, even if it is somewhat corny. It’s not painfully egregious. There are worse puns, to be sure.

Polly clearly kept the original Kolnoskan name, though. Uwe Orgolosch. I wonder why she didn’t translate it into something like “Uwe Unfortumann” or something.

...Ah. Probably because that sounds terrible.

I guess that’s why she’s the translator and I’m not.

“So there’s a cop and a dead hunter,” she continues, “and there’s a supernatural force, too. We have that right, don’t we?”

I wrote it. Why does she have to summarize it to me? Is that how book discussions work? People just repeat what they already know? “Yeah.”

Fine. The summary is as follows: A cop has visited Kolnosk to investigate the death of a hunter, an apparent murder. He takes accounts from the townspeople, but he finds their testimonies boorish and insufficient. His investigation leads him into the depths of the forest, where the Gega resides. The Gega notoriously despises unjust hunters and has been exacting its revenge on hunters in the region for decades. Not beholden to mankind’s laws, the Gega disregards Orgolosch’s disbelief and appall, making a judgment. Cops are hunters of men, after all. The ending follows from there.

Okay. Done. What’s there to talk about? That’s all there is.

Omschen sidles up to the table, five cups balanced precariously in his arms. He leans down to set them against the surface. “I ordered for you a Molkee,” he says to me in Kolnoskan. “Milk and egg yolk. If you don’t want it, I’ll drink it.”

I take it from him, the cardboard warm under my palm. They make Molkee here? I’ve only had Molkee once since Polly left for university. Howie took me to Chenmann’s coffeeshop and we sat by the dusty window, the spring sun hot on our faces. We talked about absolutely nothing; there were no safe topics. The taste sits in my mouth at the thought, viscous and bittersweet. “I didn’t realize they had that. Um. Thank you very much.”

“They have a lot of stuff,” he says mildly. “You just have to ask. It’s near the bottom of the menu.”

“Oh. I must have missed it.” I didn’t miss it. I didn’t even look.

He slides the other cups across the table to each woman. “Don’t worry for it. They often write things wrongly between languages, right? I hear that.”

I think of Alchmenk’s town sign. There are no typos in the Rigàna train station. Bismaché station doesn’t even bother with any other languages on its signs. “Yeah, that’s common.”

“Hey. Hey.” Ilo waves her hand. “What is the supernatural force? In your own words. If that’s okay. I’m just really curious!”

Mensk side-eyes her. It’s a fair question, though. They aren’t Kolnoskan, after all. “There’s a, um, a monster in the Kolnoskan stories,” I say, sliding my hands over my new cup. “It’s called the Gega. I wrote the story so that the story follows the idea of the Gega. That’s why it is the way it is.”

“The Gay-guh,” Ilo repeats, tongue tripping.

“Gega,” I correct absently. “It’s a monster for the forest.”

“I thought it was a fairy,” Omschen says in Kolnoskan, seating himself on the open stool by Ilo.

“Sort of,” I reply to him. “It’s a dryadic spirit in most accounts, though there are varying degrees of reported anthropomorphism. In my story, the spirit and its mode of communication are a little less direct than the story I based it on-- _The Hunter and the Gega_. I don’t generally prefer how on the nose most accounts tend to get. It’s usually...rather corny, I guess.”

“Oh,” he says blankly.

In my story, it’s much less of a singular entity, too. The Gega isn’t the focus, anyways. If it were, I would have called the story _The Gega._ The title is _The Hunter_ because it’s about hunting, it’s about hunters, it’s about the forms that hunters take, the moral implications of predation in all its iterations.

“I have to wonder,” Patty Something says, “how different the story is from the original. It’s translated, yeah?”

“Um. Yes. It’s translation, what you read. Probably.” I lift my drink to my lips, voice muffled against the plastic lid. “Polly Hochsprach translated it. She’s the best translator. I trust no one else with my stories.”

“Interesting,” Mensk mutters.

I take a sip. Milk bursts on my tongue, gooey with yolk. The hint of coffee. This is cow’s milk. It’s near scalding. My lips pucker.

“Do you have an original?”

“Mm?” I swallow, head swinging to look at Patty Something. “Um. Somewhere in home, I think. Polly--my wife--should have the copy of original text also.”

Patty Something picks up her cup nonchalantly. “Maybe we could read it? I think that would be cool.”

Read it? _The Hunter_ in manuscript form? First of all, it’s a mess. The typeset is terrible in some sections, there are notes in the margins, and I have handwritten self-made symbols that are illegible to anyone outside of me, Polly, and maybe some intrepid anthropologists. Plus, the story’s in Kukisch. Which no one here can read. It’s an odd request.

I offer a polite smile. “No originals. Sorry. They are within a dialect of Kolnoskan that’s called Kukisch. Only people from my home can read some parts.”

“Is that the only reason you won’t share an original?”

I stare at her. My brain slowly clicks, considering a myriad of responses. I could explain that it has to do with publication contracts, censorship laws, Polly’s frantic yammering on the phone at Franzi after visiting Oschwall. A million reasons I don’t know well enough to articulate or justify. “No originals,” I settle on flatly.

Komen Ilo taps rapidly at the table, drawing my attention. “I thought the ‘Gega’ was a--” Gibberish.

“Sorry, I don’t know of that word.”

“Fairy,” Omschen offers in Kolnoskan, “like I said. Or. Wait. Not _fairy._ A word like fairy.”

“Fae?” I ask him.

“I don’t know.”

“Um. It’s like a ghost,” I tell Ilo. I make an aborted gesture with my hand. “I guess. But if Polly calls it that other thing, then that is what’s most similar for it. She’s professional, and so she knows. I don’t speak Standard well, as you hear.”

“You sound fine,” Patty Something says, a prickling undertone to her voice.

“So it’s based on an old story?” Ilo asks, stars in her eyes. “You guys have a whole cast of creatures?”

“An old bunch of stories, yeah,” I say. A strange feeling drips down my neck, lukewarm and unfamiliar. She sounds genuinely interested in the subject. It’s...strangely affirming? Maybe. Even back home, no one liked to talk about these topics. With good reason, of course, but... “All Kolnoskan monsters have many stories. One time, the Gega killed a hunter with a hundred--sorry, thousand--deaths. The hunter dies for all the times he has killed. It’s...restitution? Or something. Probably it’s not the right word. Um. Polly knows the story better. Sorry.”

“So the whole part with the...” Patty Something taps at the table absently, a much more muted sound. “...You know, the cop? That isn’t in the story?”

I shift, shrugging. I pick up my cup. “It’s, um. The policeman is my...version? Of the hunter. You’re right. The policeman is a hunter. The hunter. Since he...um, he hunts. For the crime. Men. Cops are the hunters for men, I mean. The murdered hunter is, ah, undirection? Because the policeman is the title hunter. So he is the one who--whom?--who is... The Gega speaks to him.”

“Ohhhhhh,” Ilo breathes. “I knew it!”

“But you decided to use a police officer specifically,” Patty Something says.

I hesitate. I don’t like talking about cops. I think of the strange men with stilted accents stumbling around Kuk. “Thanks for coffee,” I say instead, voice trailing off at the end. This feels like a secret discussion.

“You chose to use a police officer for the hunter,” she continues, leaning forward. “The police officer is no hero. He’s the villain, right?”

The concept of the story revolves around breaking the natural order. So, yes. He isn’t a hero. I’m not sure if he’s a textbook villain, though. I don’t like her tone. Like she’s searching for something hidden in the text. I don’t hide anything in my text.

“When Uwe Orgolosch dies, it’s _justice.”_

I blink. Justice. “Um. ...I suppose.”

“You don’t have to say anything.” Patty Something waves a hand. “I understand completely.”

Is it justice? I don’t really know. I don’t think I thought in terms of “justice,” when I was writing it.

“Drop it,” Mensk says to her. “You’re so pushy. You’re always like this.” She turns her eyes to me. “She doesn’t know any better. If she makes you uncomfortable, just tell her to shut up.”

Patty Something laughs. I don’t.

I could never tell anyone to shut up, let alone a woman. That would be absolutely horrible. But at the same time, Mensk’s words are oddly reassuring. I take a shallow sip of Molkee. Mensk doesn’t want me to be uncomfortable. That’s a very kind thing to concern oneself with.

“Well, can I ask something?” Ilo waves her hand again, like I’m some vehicle she’s trying to flag down. “You don’t say what kind of police officer Uwe is. I think he’s Reitd, but Olli and Lijuanne think he’s SD. Did you mean for it to be specific?”

The type of cop Uwe is? Honestly, it hadn’t occurred to me. All cops are the same, in my experience. The only difference I see is uniforms. Always foreign, always rude, always looking for trouble. Though, there was that one Kolnoskan officer. He was polite. Rigàna accent, gray uniform. SD, right? Howie said SD uniforms are gray.

Uwe Orgolosch is just an amalgamation of every cop I’ve ever seen. He’s simply...a cop. The quintessential cop of Kolnosk. He investigates personal crimes he has no reference for, he has no reverence for the traditions or opinions of the local people, he is a portrait of hubris, ignorance, power. That is the Uwe that I once wrote about. A man who always knows better. A man who hunts men like deer.

“I think he’s SD, because he’s so calm,” Mensk says. “SD have intelligent minds. He’s very in control.”

If he’s so in control, then why does he die like a dog in the end?

“It doesn’t matter,” I say, “what he is. Or... I didn’t think so. I, um. I just wrote a picture of a cop as I have known of cops in home. He isn’t real. It’s a feeling-full character, not accurate for living.”

Ilo nods as if I said something highly intelligent. Ilo nods as if I didn’t stumble over my own tongue, struggling to impart my meaning in a semi-coherent fashion.

“That’s what I like about your writing,” Patty Something says. “You write about things that _feel_ true.”

I nod, face hot. I refuse to absorb the words. “Thank you for reading my stories,” I croak. “Thank you for liking them. Thank you.”

Mensk mutters something, fuzzy to my ears.

“It fits very well into our message,” she continues. “We’ve never read anything that stated the problems we’re fighting against.”

What problems does a book club have to fight against? A lack of reading? I have no idea. I swing my head toward the clock, feeling an unease swell in the hollow of my throat.

“I started reading some Kolnoskan folklore, actually. My friend has read a bunch and she recommended them. She’s studying Kolnoskan. She’s going up to Rigàna soon, I think? Research or something.”

“Oh,” I say.

“Really?” Ilo picks up her coffee. “Can you share with me, please? I really want to learn more.”

“Sure thing.” Patty Something turns her eyes to me. “Do you have a favorite story?”

I fiddle with the cardboard lining my cup. “Me?”

“Yeah. You’ve got to have a favorite, right?”

A favorite story? Not really. I’ve always thought of them less as stories and more as...I don’t know, cautionary reports? Gospel? It’s a pathetic thing to admit. I’ve learned that enough times over the course of my life. I wish I didn’t feel the way I do. It’s stupid. _I’m_ stupid. I wish there were a cure for such stupidity, but I’ve yet to access it. Deeply unfortunate. No wonder I’m such a burden.

“I like the story about the pràda and the miller’s daughter,” Patty Something says smoothly.

My face is frozen.

She catches my gaze and smiles simply. It’s a mindless smile. A polite smile, charismatic and photogenic. “Is something wrong?”

“I haven’t heard that one!” Ilo chirps. “I’ll have to look for it!”

“It’s...” My eyes stray to Omschen, who stares at me without emotion. “Um.” My voice cracks. “...Do you know of it?”

But he just stares at me. An impenetrable stare.

It reminds me of Uwe. The real Uwe, Franzi’s Uwe, the man with a relaxed face and searching eyes. I’m not entirely sure why. I feel a familiar sick, squirming sense swimming in my gut at the sight of his face. I’m queazy.

Of course he must know it. All Kolnoskans know about _The Pràda and the Miller’s Daughter,_ native speakers or not _._ It was a very stupid question to pose.

Coincidences happen. It is weird that she knows that story, though. I’m not sure why it’s weird. For all I know, a whole host of Kolnoskan folklore has been translated to Standard for the reading pleasure of book clubs all across Argrea. That’s not weird. It isn’t weird. It’s fine. I just...

“I should go,” I croak. “My, um. Wife...”

Patty Something starts. “Oh! Shoot, right. We’ve kept you a while. Thanks so much for visiting.”

“Thanks for coffee,” I mumble into my coat.

“Maybe we’ll see each other again,” Ilo says brightly. “Seriously, thanks so much.”

“Mmhm.” I slip off of the stool.

“It’s still raining,” Omschen observes.

“That’s fine. Um. Thanks. For this coffee. And for reading my stories. Thank you.” I grab my cup, glancing at the water cup. I reach out and take that, too. They’re gifts, after all. I duck my head. “Thank you, thanks. Goodbye.”

Mensk shoots Patty Something a look. None of my business. I’m removing myself from this social situation. I’ll see Polly, soon. And if not, I’ll just sit outside.

“He’s not what I imagined,” I hear as the door swings behind me.

\- - -

“How long have you been here?” Polly peers at me curiously from under her umbrella, coat buttoned up to her chin.

“Not, uh. Not long.” My fingers snap as I curl them at my sides, damp and chilled from the walk back to the enchanting engineering building. I’m beginning to understand the structural purpose of long concrete spider legs burrowed into the sidewalks: shelter.

She blinks, taking me in. I suppose I must look somewhat unfortunate, drenched and huddled against an architectural crime. “Well,” she says slowly, “I guess I should have invited you on a day with better weather.”

“This was fine,” I say, fiddling with the peeling cardboard coffee cup stuffed into my straining coat pocket. “The campus is...nice.”

“What’s that cup? You get coffee or something?”

“Um. Yeah, I did.”

Her eyebrows raise. “You went to a coffeeshop?”

“I did.”

She frowns. “...How did you--”

A hand clamps down on her shoulder and she freezes. The hand is attached to an arm, attached to a man in a suit. He swings his umbrella side-to-side over his head, smiling. “Polly! I haven’t seen you in so long,” the man says in Standard. “Is Hoknase really taking up that much of your time?”

Her jaw clicks just, eyes sliding to the side. “Hi, Professor Ulme. Uh, yeah. I’ve been really busy.”

He turns his attention toward me, the drowned rat. “Oh. Are you a friend of Polly’s?”

“Yes,” I answer, automatic. It only takes a second for the stupidity of my answer to catch up with me. “Um. I mean, ah. I’m her husband.”

Polly doesn’t say anything.

“Her _husband?”_ His hand slaps on Polly’s shoulder again. “Polly, I started to think you just made him up to be a tease!”

“Yes, this is my husband,” she says stiffly. “Waldi Hoffenthal.”

His eyes scan me. I wish I weren’t wet.

“Hello,” I say.

He doesn’t say anything, though. He just looks at me. His hand sits on Polly’s shoulder, large and encompassing, like some invasive growth.

She’s uncomfortable. She should be uncomfortable. Do I say something? Do I do something? How am I supposed to act, in this situation? Is this an important man? He knows Polly. She calls him “Professor.” Maybe I shouldn’t say anything.

“Oh, you really weren’t kidding,” he says, finally.

“Of course I wasn’t!” bursts from her mouth, a scowl forming on her face. “Why would I lie about that?”

His hand drops from her. It raises, then, fingers straight and thumb out. I’ve seen the motion so many times, now. They all do this. “Well, it’s a pleasure. I’m Heath Ulme, Professor of Literature.”

“Pleasure too,” I reply, staring at his outstretched hand.

“Married to your own translator,” he says, bemused. “Surely there’s a--” Words he says too quickly. Something of something.

“We knew each other before that,” she says. “We grew up together.”

“Oh, childhood sweethearts. I see.”

Were we childhood sweethearts? It doesn’t feel right. I’m not entirely sure if it’s wrong, either, though. We were something else, but I don’t know what. Something more crucial than best friends. Polly was my only friend.

His hand hangs in the air. “Well, it’s nice to finally meet you. You’ve been quite the subject in the Literature--” Word.

I stare at him blankly, eyes darting from his fingers to his worn face.

“Department,” Polly mutters in Kolnoskan. “He’s talking about _The Hunter.”_

“He’s not a fluent speaker?” Ulme asks, retracting his hand.

“No,” I say.

“His Standard is great,” Polly says.

The air shivers between us, a tenuous thread anchored to each of our heads. I can feel it tug as I swing back on the heels of my feet, discomfort stabbing at my knees.

“Well, I still haven’t read your writing,” he says pointedly to me.

Okay? I don’t say anything. No one has read my writing. Or. Well...a book club did, apparently? Many people may have, allegedly? I don’t know. This is all so surreal. Why did he say it like that?

Polly steps under the angled pillar with me, leaning her umbrella onto her shoulder. “He has a new story coming out soon,” she says. “It’s his best yet.”

“I’m sure,” he replies. “You’re the best translator I ever advised, Polly. It must be very good.”

“His writing is really good,” she says, not responding to his very nice compliment.

“Of course,” he says.

The wind spits rain in my face. I blink, grimacing.

“I don’t suppose you also eat that stuff, Waldi.”

“Excuse me?” I ask, reaching to wipe my eyes.

“When I first met her,” Ulme says, smiling, “she was eating lunch. It was some rice, I think. Whatever it was, I could smell it from down the hall. It had bugs in it!”

Mushroom-stuffed rice with cricket sauce, probably. Polly used to buy it from the corner store after school, some days. She’d unwrap it as we walked down the road, sucking the sticky, sweet glaze off of her fingers as she talked about whatever popped into her head. I only ever had it when Polly split hers with me, both her palms tacky after ripping it in two.

They have that in Bismaché? I hadn’t thought about it much. Polly hasn’t had it in the apartment in the short time I’ve been here.

“It was so disgusting!” Ulme says with a bright laugh.

Polly lets out a discomforted chuckle, eyes quickly darting to me and then to the ground.

I don’t laugh. It’s really not funny.

“She’s always been a card,” he says. I don’t know how anyone can be a “card.” Maybe “card” means something else that I don’t know. His smile slowly slips from his face. “You’re serious that you’re married?” He swaps his umbrella to his other hand. “You don’t seem like a married couple.”

Polly exhales white steam into the chilled air. Her eyes flit across the ground. Mushroom-stuffed rice with cricket sauce isn’t disgusting. It’s food. Polly used to share it with me, flecks of rice stuck to her wrists that she’d lick up without a care. She’s staring at the ground now, though, breath curling from her mouth like smoke.

My arms darts out to grab her hand, pulse jumping. Total impulse. My nerves prickle with discomfort. Polly’s fingers are clammy from the humid air. This is the texture of human skin. Polly’s skin.

Ulme looks between us, a strange quirk to his lips. It isn’t a friendly expression at all.

I shiver, drenched and cold to my core.

“Well, I should go to my staff meeting,” he says jovially, turning on his heel. “Again, a pleasure. Bye, Polly. You should stop by sometime soon, just so I know you’re not dead.”

“Bye,” she says. “Thanks for talking, Professor.”

We watch him stroll down the sidewalk, sidestepping the legs of the architecture building.

“Fucking asshole,” she mutters, fingers entangling with mine.

\- - -

“Hey, Wally.”

I blinked, squinting in the dim light. The sun had set, casting the foyer in cool blues and muted umbers. The roof of my mouth felt tacky and dry. As I opened my lips, I could feel a mucusy scum crack around the corners.

“How long were you napping?”

“Um,” creaked from the hole in my face. “Hi, Ichma.”

She slid into view, bent over with wide eyes. “Wow, you look _awful._ Are you sick?”

My eyes trailed past her for a moment, catching on the blue flowers in the corner. Baby blue. _I’m fine,_ I intended to say, but the sentence wouldn’t expel itself from me. “Where is everyone?” came out instead.

She stood up, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Dining room. We’re all gonna have dinner soon.”

“Oh.”

She folded her arms over her chest, frowning. “If I didn’t come in here, we would have had dinner without you. Polly’s the _worst,_ wow. Aren’t you two supposed to be attached or something, now? Not that you weren’t already.”

I didn’t say anything. My limbs felt heavy and cold, tangled beneath my torso. My whole body was a knot.

Ichma peered at me, her eyes thin, shining slivers in the darkness. “You look sick.”

“I think I’m gonna get some air,” I said. My voice cracked at the end. Gross.

“We’re gonna have dinner now, though.”

“That’s fine. Um. You can have dinner without me.” I cringed, slotting my arms under my chest to gain some leverage.  
She took a step back as I rolled into a sitting position. I could feel my intestine slopping over itself as I bent forward. I could smell food, now. Sesame pork belly and warm bread, maybe. It was a sweet smell, curling into my lungs. Disarming in its comfort.

This wasn’t a safe place. I’d been thoroughly tricked. They’d tricked me. I’d thought they were nice, but they’d tricked me. I’d been too stupid to know any better.

“Yeah, I’m gonna get some air,” I repeated dumbly, standing up on wobbling legs. I walked past Ichma with stuttering steps, hands smacking into the doorknob before I wrenched it open gracelessly.

My body settled heavily on the front steps, eyes trained on the gnarled woods outside the Hochsprach home, trunks stretching into the infinite twilight. It was both terrifying and comforting in its familiarity. The woods never changed. And I’d seen the woods from this exact step so many times over the years. Monsters lived in those woods. I wouldn’t be sad if they whisked me away, tonight. I wouldn’t be sad if they ate me whole.

The steps creaked as thin legs folded beside me. Ichma huffed, breath fanning across the air. “Cold for spring,” she muttered.

I could smell the food, wafting in from the recently shut door. I thought of Jun Dienschon, kneading bread and smiling at me. _I can’t_ believe _your dad doesn’t cook. You should have all your dinners here!_

It was cold for spring; Ichma was right. The chill sunk into me all at once with the recognition and I was left blissfully numb to all other sensation.

We sat together until the moon came up.

\- - -

“They give you free coffee or what?” Polly asks on the train, hand clenched around the ceiling strap.

I rock with the car as it begins to move, fingers frigid around the pole. “Huh?”

“At the coffeeshop,” she says. “You got coffee, right? How’d you pay?”

“Oh.” I glance down at my pocket, at the crushed cardboard sticking out. “Uh, no. Someone paid for me.”

She stares ahead, frowning.

“His name was Olli Omschen,” I say. “He’s part of a book club?”

“A Kolnoskan guy?”

“Yeah.” Sort of.

“Was he a student or?”

I don’t know, actually. It hadn’t occurred to me to ask. They seemed too old to be students, but how old is too old to be a student? I have no idea. Maybe they’re professors or researchers or Linguistics Consultancy and Multilingual Translation Research Curators or something else entirely. “I don’t really know,” I confess.

“Huh.” She still doesn’t look at me, eyes fixated out the window opposite of us. An old woman sits on the chair beneath it, halfway to falling asleep despite the motion jerking us around. I think of mold for a moment, a cringe rising in my soul. “Why’d he buy you a coffee?”

“I...” It gets caught in my throat for a moment. The answer sounds so stupid, so unbelievable. Saying it aloud means acknowledging it. “He... His club...likes my stories.”

“So you met with the club he’s in?” She turns to look at me. In her face, I see no anger. I see nothing.

“They met with me, I guess? They saw me in front of the engineering building, said they’d read my story. _The Hunter._ They...” I swallow. This feels so stupid to say. It feels so stupid. “Their president said she was a big fan.”

“A big fan,” Polly echoes. “Who’s their president?”

I can’t just say a woman’s personal name with no surname. That’s beyond inappropriate. I can’t use personal names for random women, not even to describe them. Patty Something only offered me half a name. I have very little to work with. “I don’t...know,” I reply.

“You don’t know,” Polly says.

“No. Sorry.”

Her eyes don’t leave me. “Huh,” she supplies. “Okay.”

Okay?

That’s it? Just...okay? All of this happened and that’s it. No more questions after that. Okay? Really?

“It’s just a lot to take in,” I try to explain but instead babble, words leaving my mouth without any proper preparation. “I didn’t really understand what was going on, since I’ve never... Polly, I had no idea people actually _read_ my stories.”

She frowns. “Of course people read your stories. Free Press wouldn’t have renewed their contract with you _three times_ if you weren’t selling. Wally, you seriously thought they were just printing your stories for no one?”

“Well, it’s in a literary journal, so I just figured it was thrown in with some other stuff.”

She sighs, looking back toward the window. “Wow. You are just...really surprising, sometimes.”

“I don’t understand why anyone would read my stories,” I explain. “And they made it sound like they’re _popular_ or something, which I had no idea about--if that’s even true at all--which I doubt, and some stuff felt really off because--”

“You need to learn how to accept good things in your life,” she says flatly.

“Ah.” My brain slams into that statement, stopped in its tracks.

Polly reaches out, wrapping an arm lightly around my shoulders, bracketing me in. The rattling of the train car forces me to lean toward her. My skin is still cold, my hair damp, but I feel strangely warm. This is comfortable in its own way. It reminds me of the Hochsprach dining room, the smell of the oven and the creak of the chairs as everyone sat down. Polly always sat next to me.

Painful thoughts snap at the heels of my memories. I blink, eyes unfocused for a moment.

 _Maybe change is okay,_ I think tentatively.

It’s a raw, uncomfortable thought, like hand-me-down shoes and public nakedness and flavors that have become rancid through association.

Not necessarily bad, though.

Polly’s palm is warm through my coat, resting with hardly any weight, fingers forming an unassuming hold over my right shoulder.

I could break out of it if I wanted. I don’t.


	8. Sour Congratulations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School got really crazy, so this took a while to edit. Thanks so much for reading. I greatly appreciate it.

The magazine slaps onto the kitchen table, Polly standing above it with a pointed look. I glance at my cup of cow’s milk, undisturbed by the impact, before turning my eyes back to her. She nods at the magazine, shoving it toward me. 

It’s the University Journal, new month’s edition. The yellow light hanging above the table reflects off of its glossy, immediately recognizable cover.

“Happy publication,” she says. 

“It’s in there?” 

She gestures, arms flopping at her sides. I twist it around and flip through the pages. I can’t read any of them, I remember embarrassingly late, so this is a pointless gesture. 

“Page twenty-two,” she says.

I can’t read their numbers, so that observation is almost as pointless as my thumbing motion. I could count the pages, I guess. Well, the title is probably phonetically translated, unless Polly came up with a new word for the pràda. I could just look for that. 

“Here.” She leans over the table, reaching for the magazine. My arms quickly retreat in an automatic action. I watch her fingers deftly turn the pages, landing on a double-columned text layout. “They made the stupid columns too thin again,” she mutters. I can feel her breath in the space between us, warm and dissipating. 

“Thanks,” I say. I still can’t read it. 

It says _pràda_ , though. It does. _The Pràda_. Polly didn’t translate it. I guess there wasn’t a translation. 

“You didn’t translate pràda.”

“Huh? Uh, no. There isn’t a translation that makes any sense, so. It’s like the Gega thing; there really isn’t any other word for the actual creature, right?”

“But the Gega can be called a fairy,” I murmur thoughtlessly, remembering Omschen.

Polly steps away, frowning. “I...guess? Not what I would call it.”

“Well, in Standard,” I say. “Right?”

“Some people would, I guess,” she replies flatly. She doesn’t add anything else. 

“What would you call the pràda in Standard?” I ask. “If you could make a name for it? Man-eater?”

“I don’t think there’s a good way to translate words like that. They have connotations that don’t transfer at all. The guys at Free Press asked me to call it a ‘manivore,’ which sounds stupid as shit. I’m not interested in doing that. It erases a lot of the meaning.”

“But they don’t know what a pràda is anyways, right?”

She folds her arms over her chest, shirt bunching. “It’s the principle of the thing. People who know Kolnoskan will read it and be like, ‘What the fuck is a manivore? Is that like a pràda?’ And it’s not what you meant when you wrote it, anyways. You meant ‘pràda.’”

I guess. My eyes fall onto the text again. It must look like such an awkward word to a Standard-speaker. And it’s spelled out phonetically, so it’s especially foreign. This is a loanword. A loan concept? Polly seems to think so. I don’t know much about language. A lot of what she said went over my head, admittedly. Manivore. 

“The pràda’s not just a monster, you know?” she continues. “It’s this manifestation of real human fears. It isn’t human, but its predation on humans is written as though it’s cannibalism. You call it a man-eater or a manivore or whatever and it loses those other connotations. They don’t have a special verb for eating another person in Standard. Cannibalizing. It’s all just ‘eat,’ so the meaning has to be recreated through the other text.” She uncrosses her arms, settling a hand on her hip. “There’s a lot that goes into it. It’s not as simple as just knowing two languages.”

Polly may as well be speaking a third language, right now. Her mouth flaps, lower lip pouting outwards. I’m not the kind of person for technical discussions about semantics or metaphor or any of that. My attention creeps back to the text. I really can’t read this. It’s so strange, isn’t it? I wrote this, but I can’t read it anymore. My own thoughts are illegible to me. 

“I snagged the Journal at work. They’re all stacked up in the Literature Department, so they should be disbursed to all the snobby academics by now.”

I idly flip the page, revealing more text. If I count the paragraphs, I should be able to roughly tell where I am in the story. It’s a very short story and I know it by heart. I wrote it and rewrote it, after all. Maybe this is the part where I discuss the sorrows of the miller’s daughter, alone and without a decent meal. The mill hasn’t run in so long. People are so hungry in so many ways. The land is fallow and stinking. Nothing good grows from it. 

“Have you read it yet?” I murmur, turning the page. 

“Me? No.” 

“Well.” I close the magazine, sliding it toward the center of the table. “You can read it, if you want. It’s nice to see it there, especially since there was so much trouble.”

“You didn’t even really look.”

“I can’t read it.”

She huffs, flipping it open again. “At least look at your name. See? It says: _Written by Waldi Hoffenthal. Translated by Polly Hochsprach._ Isn’t that cool?”

“Sure,” I say. There are our names, that’s true. They’re notated incorrectly, but they’re still there. I’m getting used to that with Standard, I guess. All of Polly’s mail comes in with the wrong capitalization on her name. 

“This is your first time seeing your writing in print,” she grouses, “and it doesn’t seem to phase you at all.”

“I’ve been published before, right?”

“Yeah, but you’ve never _seen_ it. Here it is! A printing press mass-printed this.”

“I’m sorry, I guess it just won’t really sink in for me. It is very neat, you’re right.”

She sighs, taking back the magazine that I can’t read. “Howie already called me to say he picked it up,” she says. “He wants to treat us to dinner.”

Howie did say he would read it, which is very kind of him. Howie is a kind person, generally speaking. Treating us to dinner is a very kind gesture, naturally. “That’s very nice of him. What’s he making?”

She blinks. “Oh. I meant ‘treat’ as in ‘pay for.’ He wants us to go out with him in a few hours. It’s just a diner downtown. Nothing fancy. He said--” She lowers her voice, leaning in. “--he’s bringing Carol. His fiancée.”

“Carol Chenscho,” I say. 

“Yeah. I’ve only met her once.”

Howie wants to take us to a diner, tonight, with his fiancée. That’s undoubtedly stressful for me. I can’t deny this. It’s kind, but it’s also deeply unfortunate. There are so many kind gestures that I feel the world would be much better off without. “I’ve never eaten in a Bismaché restaurant.”

“It’s just a diner.” She takes back the magazine again. “I’ll order for you, don’t worry. It’s seriously not a big deal. If you don’t want to go, that’s fine. I really want to get to know Carol better, though, considering she’s, you know, gonna be related to me soon.”

Polly’ll order for me. Well, naturally. She said it like it wasn’t normal, though. I shift in my chair, feeling the wood give slightly at the joints. The glass of cow’s milk is room temperature, now. Half-filled. “How long until we leave?” I ask.

“Well, we gotta catch a train, so... Forty-five minutes sound good? I’ll call him and confirm we’ll be there.”

“Okay.”

“Um. And Wally.”

I hum, swallowing.

There’s a hesitation to Polly’s voice. She settles a hand over my arm, pressing her thumb into the fabric over my bicep, the warmth of her skin a concentrated point. Just as timidly, it leaves.

It’s still strange. I thought it would get easier, but it really hasn’t. True, it hasn’t been long, relatively speaking, but it’s been a week. Things should be getting easier in some ways. It’s all so foreign, though, still. I feel so divorced from my body whenever she reaches for me, like a brain in a vat, a voyeur clumsily operating a pair of eyes.

But in what world would this have been easy?

I imagine kissing Polly. It would have to be in some foreign context, because it’s such a foreign concept. Polly corralling me against the exterior of a building in Bismaché, maybe, bracketing me with an arm by my shoulder. I picture it raining--because it’s always raining in Bismaché, or about to rain--Polly’s hair matted to her forehead in strings. _Can I kiss you?_ she would ask. _Can I kiss your mouth? I love you, Waldi. I love you._

_Of course,_ I would say because everything would be simple. I would never have a reason to say no. 

The part in her mouth, a void of space that offers a promise of contact. Polly’s wet lips and wet eyes and wet face. Wet fingers. A wet sky. Everything is sweating. Slick with disappointment.

What an awful picture. Doesn’t really cultivate the intended mood. Particularly poor visualization, that one.

Right. Visualization. It doesn’t mean anything. Visualization isn’t worth shit.

“What’re you thinking about?”

I blink, eyes refocusing on Polly’s face. She’s idly flipping the magazine open and shut. My story, inside there, illegible.

She hums in questioning.

“Nothing important,” I manage.

“You mean nothing you want to talk about.”

“Ah. I guess. Sorry.”

She shrugs. “It’s fine. There’s lots of stuff I think about that I don’t want to talk about, either.”

Is there a suitable response to that? If so, I don’t have it. “Um.”

Her spine straightens. “Forty-five minutes. Have your coat on by then. I don’t want to be late.”

“Of course,” I say, fingers sticky over my warm glass. I lift it to my mouth and swallow as much as my throat will allow me.

\- - -

Ichma hung off of the kitchen chair. “So you don’t even ask for _copies?”_

“Of what.” I placed a dish beside the sink to air-dry.

“Your books!”

“I don’t write books,” I said, craning my neck to look out the window. Loose clumps of grass shivered in the breeze.

“Stories. Whatever. You don’t gotta be so technical.”

The sun was beginning to slouch behind the mountains. Ichma needed to go home soon. I didn’t attach much emotion to this observation. I didn’t feel much like looking at Ichma, so the setting sun was a welcome sight. That didn’t necessarily mean I wanted her gone. I just wanted to be alone.

“It’s getting late,” I observed.

She groaned. “You are _so_ obviously passive-aggressive about everything. Wow. Okay, so you don’t want to talk about it. Fine.”

I peeked over my shoulder to find half of Ichma’s body thrown over the kitchen table, her backpack on the chair. She didn’t appear to be leaving anytime soon. I really didn’t want her to walk home in the dark.

Her face scrunched when her eyes met mine. “Why don’t you care about your own writing? Aren’t you proud that you’re a big-shot author?”

“I’m not a big shot author.”

She rolled her eyes. Clearly, she didn’t believe me. I wasn’t sure what she didn’t believe, though, or why she had to act like this. Maybe she acted like this because she was a teenager. Ichma had always been somewhat irascible. Maybe the answer was that simple.

I tended to prefer believing people’s behaviors didn’t involve me. I was aware of this personal failing. I’d never bothered to correct it. Considering where I was now, a wedded husband with an absent nightmare-scenario arranged wife, this failing had more than caught up to me; its hooves had pounded my skull into the soft earth as it rode past me down whatever frightful road all poor characteristics eventually led toward.

“My father will be up soon,” I said, to try to encourage her not to walk home in the dark. “He’ll want to eat.”

She snorted. “I haven’t seen your dad in, like, two months.”

“Well, you’ll see him if you stick around.”

Her face indicated that she didn’t believe me, but I didn’t miss the tension along her stretched spine. “You’re a bully,” she groused. “And you make it very hard to be nice to you.”

I shrugged. Ichma was certainly a teenager.

“Polly talked to me,” she said, pushing herself up. My fingers curled over the metal rim of the sink, the skin tight and unpleasant. Her eyes darted to the motion before returning to my face. We both had our trump cards, I supposed. Hers was much better.

“Oh.”

“About the story,” she continued, drumming her fingers on the table. “She’s the one who told me you’re a big-shot author.”

“I’m not,” I said. Truthfully, I didn’t know if I was a “big-shot author.” I _probably_ wasn’t, considering...well. A lot of factors. I would have bet everything on that, but I still didn’t know for certain. I couldn’t have known. I really wanted nothing to do with it. Polly only ever called me to talk about business. About writing. She sounded so mechanical over the phone, reluctant to even utter my name.

“You’re such a liar. Just like you lied about your dad coming out. He’s not gonna come out for a sandwich or whatever.”

I had no proper response. _I’m not a liar,_ I wanted to say. _I’m not!_ I wasn’t the liar here, but still I was treated like some criminal by the Hochsprachs. I didn’t understand at all. There were gaps in my memory, to be fair, surrounding the actual wedding. Maybe something had happened. Maybe I needed to atone for some great wrong that I had committed, but no one had told me what it was. I felt like I was going crazy.

In my desperation, I’d started thumbing through self-help books in the town library, sitting under the judging gaze of the library assistant. They all had feeble advice and feebler anecdotes serving as evidence. I knew that I was supposed to support Polly. I knew that much. Polly deserved my respect. It was a difficult transition, though. Polly’s absence didn’t help anything.

I didn’t really know what to make of it.

It was best not to think about it. Above all feelings, I mostly felt overwhelmed by everything. I was beginning to understand why my father never left his bed. This recognition left a hollow, gaping terror in my very core. I didn’t want it. I got up before dawn every day, now, because I didn’t want it at all.

“I just write stories,” I said lamely, trying to conclude the conversation. “And Polly translates them. I don’t need copies. I wrote them.”

Ichma opened her mouth to offer a retort, but a rapping at the door stilled her tongue.

It opened to reveal Howie behind the screen. He’d come back to Kuk for a few weeks, claiming some leave of absence from his work down south. Sudorta, I thought. I wasn’t totally sure. Howie, too, did not speak to me much, anymore. It had only been a few months, but I felt like my whole life had been upended for years.

He looked at the ground by my feet, nodding. He was like this, now. I must have had done something truly terrible to the Hochsprachs with the way they treated me. The only one who really talked to me now was Ichma.

And Ichma was a teenager.

“You’re not acting right,” Ichma said flatly. Hochsprach women were so blunt, weren’t they? It bordered on criminally rude at times.

“Ichma,” Howie whispered.

“Both of you,” she said, unimpressed. “You’re all acting so weird. Stop it.”

She shoved past Howie to leave.

Howie raised his eyes to look at me, a lost expression on his face. He had the same eyes as Dienschon, I realized. The same shade, the same shape. They softened slightly when they fixated on me, even if there was a hard kernel of discomfort behind them.

I felt ill.

“Howie!” Ichma hollered. “Come _on!_ Take a hint. He wants to be alone.”

He started, blinking to break the spell. His neck nodded at me as he turned and walked off the porch. In his haste, he didn’t close the storm door. Howie was usually a very thoughtful person, wasn’t he? He was always the picture of politeness. The man I never could be.

I stood by the sink, staring dumbly at the swinging door. My mind was unpleasantly empty. My father’s room was silent.

\- - -

The diner menu swims in my vision, lettering opaque and meaningless. I finger the corners, eyes peeking over the top to examine Howie and his fiancée, sitting opposite of us. He flashes me a close-lipped, encouraging smile once our eyes meet. I immediately glance back at the menu. I’ve seen enough, for the moment.

Beside Howie sits Carol Chenscho. She’s a pretty woman, shorter than him. She has a very round face, straight black bob, bright brown eyes. Her fingers drum on the table near Howie’s elbow. They sit close but not too close. Kolnoskan close.

“Ohhh, you’re a cutie,” she croons at me in Standard, reaching across the table. Polly eyes this, lips tightening in distaste.

My back thumps against the leather back of the booth, nodding my head. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Chenscho.”

“Carol is fine,” she says. “We’re family, after all.”

Are all Sudortans like this? She waggles her extended hand, smiling.

“Carol,” Polly barks.

Chenscho laughs. She rescinds her hand. “Sorry, sorry! I forget, sometimes. You guys are all so uptight.”

“I don’t care. Don’t try to touch my husband.”

“Polly,” Howie intones.

She scowls at him.

I pull the menu close to my chest while Chenscho offers an apologetic shrug. “That was rude of me.” She says it with the same casual air she’s had, as though she doesn’t think it was rude at all. “Can I call you Waldi? Or should I call you by your other name? I don’t remember it, sorry.”

“Waldi’s fine.” My fingers curl more tightly over the menu. “Ah. My family name is Hoffenthal.”

“Waldi Hoffenthal,” she hums. Her eyes are unfocused, smile frozen while she stares forward in concentration. “...Oh! Right. Congrats on the story.”

“Thank you.”

“University Journal, right?”

“Yes.”

She claps her hands. “Polly’s so lucky that she married such a literary hunk.”

“...‘Hunk’?”

Polly groans, grabbing her head.

I turn to her, asking in Kukisch, “Polly, what’s ‘hunk’?”

“Don’t ask,” she mutters into her hands.

Howie laughs.

“What’s up?” Chenscho asks.

“He’s just confused,” he supplies.

Polly rubs her face, eyes tired and nostrils flared. She’s been in a curiously vexed mood ever since I got out of the bathroom to leave the apartment, though, so I don’t think of it too much. Well...I try not to, at least. When I’d asked, as we walked to the train station, she’d flippantly mentioned publication column widths again. Not a lie, but not the truth either.

“Anyways, I’m looking forward to reading your story!” Chenscho idly fingers the lip of her water glass. They’d ordered us all water before we had shown up. It was a polite gesture. “Howie said it’s pretty good.”

I look at him. “You read it?”

“Sure,” he says easily. “I’d love to read the original sometime, too. If you want.”

I open my mouth, but Polly cuts me off. “Maybe sometime.”

I don’t think I’d mind if Howie read the original. Polly says ‘maybe,’ though, so ‘maybe’ it is.

“Thank you for reading my story,” I say instead, nodding.

Howie smiles. An unreadable quirk spasms across his lips. Something feels strained, but only just. “Yeah. I’d love to read the original, though. My Kukisch is a lot better than my Standard. Understandably.”

“You’re fluent,” Polly mutters.

There’s a loose stitch in this interaction that I could pull at to entirely unravel its veneer. Things Polly still won’t tell me, even after...well. I don’t know what to call it. We didn’t exactly make things _right_ between us, but I felt like we were approaching something. I felt like we had a mutual understanding, now.

The way Howie tepidly licks his upper lip suggests a web of secrets I’m not sure I want to drag my hand through. Maybe I should, though.

“Anyways,” Chenscho says. “I haven’t seen you in so long, Polly. How has work been?”

“Fine,” she says shortly, leaving no room for further conversation.

Chenscho flashes a wane smile in response. This table is full of people making the weakest expressions.

Not that I can necessarily blame her. Polly isn’t exactly being a socially pleasant person. Polly is, admittedly, prone to sulking when she feels poorly, especially when she won’t explain what’s wrong. With over a decade of experience, I’m used to it. Howie navigates her as artfully as any older brother can. Chenscho, on the other hand, I can’t help but pity in this moment.

I readjust myself, legs sliding under the booth. This is how I should contribute as a man. I know how to keep the peace. Theoretically. I've read books about on the subject, at least. “What is your work? Um, Carol Chenscho.”

She looks at me. “Oh. Uh, I’m just a--” Word. “--for the city. Nothing as important as you or Polly or Howie.”

I have no idea what word she said.

“Secretary,” Howie offers in Kukisch. “She’s a secretary for the city hall.”

“Oh,” I reply in Standard. “Okay. Very nice.”

“I guess,” she hedges.

That sounds important to me. She’s in an important political building, after all. The one with all the arches in the city center. I’m just a writer (am I? I just write), which I hardly consider important. Lots of people write and writing doesn’t feed anyone. If anything, I was probably more important when I worked with my father’s goats. Polly is important, of course, working as a...whatever she calls it at a university, and Howie is... I forget. An engineer? I think so. He went to university for some kind of engineering, at least. Didn’t he?

Admittedly, it’s somewhat tangential to my life. Not something I ever really focused on. Looking back on it, though, I feel guilty. Howie’s my brother-in-law. And I grew up with him. I should probably know more about him than I do.

Though I guess I know more, now. More than I want to know. That makes me feel guilty, too. I don’t look at Chenscho, feeling a sick sense of embarrassment climb my throat.

“It’s very stable,” Howie says to her and me.

She smiles wryly, shoving at him. He doesn’t budge. He looks ahead with no change in his expression. I stare at her slim arm as it flops onto the table. “ _You’re_ the stable one.”

Her hand twitches a little.

“Hello,” a woman says, standing by the table.

I blink, opening my mouth. I don’t know this woman.

“Are you ready to order?”

“Yeah,” Polly says.

The woman glances between us with an overly attentive expression, eyes wide and lips pursed.

“You can go,” Polly says to Chenscho. She reaches over and plucks the menu from my hands. I look at my empty palms, curling my fingers.

“Oh. Um, okay.” Her brow furrows. “Just number four.”

“Okay,” the woman replies as though this sentence made any sense. “You want potatoes or asparagus with that?” Or maybe she says ‘potatoes or green beans.’ I get a lot of foods mixed up. Because of course I do. I’m not the most skilled linguist. Evidently.

“Potatoes,” Chenscho says.

“I’d like an olive salad, please,” Howie says, handing over his menu to Chenscho, who stacks them in her hands.

“Just a beef sandwich,” Polly says, “with everything. And he’ll have the number eight. No side.”

I have no idea what the number eight is. It’s food, of course; I’m not that stupid. Chenscho requested a number. What it contains, however, is a mystery.

“Okay.” The woman reaches down to take the menus away. “Let me know if I can get you anything else.”

“Thanks,” Howie says as she walks away.

Chenscho’s eyes sweep across Polly and me before landing on him. They linger on our faces with discomfit. It’s a minute motion, but I notice it. Polly must too, because her hands ball up under the table.

“So how has Bismaché been?” Chenscho asks me, tone friendly again. “Howie said you came down recently.”

“It’s been fine,” I say. “I’m, ah. I’m still ad...justing. It’s different from back in Kuk.”

She nods. Howie takes a measured drink from his glass of water, his eyes trained on Polly. “Well, I’m so glad to finally meet you. Howie’s told me so much about you, so I feel like we’re already family!”

My neck prickles with sweat. I don’t move my face. Howie wouldn’t tell her anything bad about me. He isn’t that sort of person. A coldness creeps across my skin, though, like trickling water.

Chenscho laughs. “Sorry, did I say something?”

“No,” I reply, automatic. “I mean. I’m glad you have heard of me by Howie. Howie is my brother-in-law.”

“I know.” She sounds humored for some reason.

“His story has some great reviews,” Polly says.

I glance at her. Her face is tightly drawn. Why did she say that? It has nothing to do with anything. Totally unrelated. I think of Polly explaining my accomplishments to her professor with the same set jaw.

“That’s impressive!” Chenscho chirps.

“Ah. That’s not... I don’t know why you... Um. So you come from in Sudorta? Chenscho?” I ask, fumbling to find traction in the conversation once again.

She blinks. “Oh. Yeah. I’m from Ulmpon. You probably haven’t heard of it, right? It’s on the border with Tschünsk, way down south.”

Polly sighs, tapping her fingers against the table.

“Ah, Tschünsk, the country? I mean, nation?”

“Yeah! My grandfather is from there, actually. It’s a neat place.”

“You’ve been?”

Her smile slips off her face at my question. “Um. ...I mean. Once, yeah. J-Just for a day.”

“Food’s taking a while,” Howie says.

“Yeah,” Polly says.

“Mmhm,” Chenscho says.

I guess I said something that killed the mood. It’s hard to tell and it’s impossible to predict. This whole conversation has felt so disjointed. Carol Chenscho seems like a nice woman, though. She’s the kind of person I could imagine becoming friends with. I think, at least. I don’t know her well enough. For all I know, she could have some dreadful private personality that she only reveals to obviously vulnerable and pathetic people like me.

As far as I can see, though, she’s nice.

“We’re supposed to be celebrating.” Polly sounds frustrated.

“We _are,”_ Howie says, frowning. “Polly, you don’t need to--” He says a string of words I don’t know. They’re definitely big words. Howie and Polly are both such smart people.

“That’s _not_ the issue,” she bites out. Lowly, in Kukisch, she says, “Howie, listen to me. Not this bullshit again.”

What bullshit she means, I can’t say. They’re having their own private conversation, right now. I glance at Chenscho. We share a lost look between us. _I don’t know what they’re talking about,_ I want to say. _I really don’t, even though they’re speaking my language. This is_ so _awkward. I don’t condone this._

She points her fork at Chenscho. “She’s talking down to him.”

“She isn’t,” Howie says, ever patient. “That’s really offensive to say. Why are you getting so defensive? Is there something going on?”

She shakes her head.

“Polly,” I murmur.

Her eyes dart to me. They’re cluttered with thoughts.

I reach out for my glass of water, fingers slipping against the surface. They’re shaking. I decide not to pick it up. “Everyone’s been polite, right?”

“She’s too friendly,” she says flatly.

“I’d rather we didn’t talk about her when she’s sitting right here,” Howie replies, unamused.

“It’s rude,” I agree.

Polly sighs, grinding her teeth.

I twist my upper body toward her, leaning as far forward as my discomfort can withstand. “What’s going on?” I whisper. “Something’s wrong.”

“I’m just pissed,” she mumbles. “Forget about it.”

I glance at Chenscho’s painfully polite face, her eyes trying to find a neutral place to rest while we talk about her. “Polly, I’d rather we talk about it. Maybe later, if you want. I just thought we were gonna be better about--”

“It’s about the story, right?”

Polly looks up, eyes hooded. _“Howie.”_

He shrugs, clasping his hands. “I don’t want to dance around this.”

She sighs. “Why do you always have to be like this. You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.”

“Well, why don’t you explain it to me, then, Polly?”

She shakes her head. “You’re trying to piss me off.”

_Too late,_ some droll part of me mutters. Obviously, I don’t say it. I’m not stupid. I’m not impolite, either. Not if I can help it. Looking between them, I feel like I’m part of some strange stand-off.

“I read it,” she says thickly. The story, she means. She must have read it while I was getting ready. Not that it would take long. It’s a very short story. Much shorter than _The Hunter._

Howie hums.

She clears her throat. “But that’s not...” She trails off, offering nothing more.

“I figured,” he says dryly.

“Seriously. You are _trying_ to piss me off. Fucking ass.”

Howie holds out a palm. “I’m not.”

“What’re you talking about?” I ask.

His eyes turn to me, mouth opening.

“Don’t,” Polly says.

He looks at her. “He’s going to find out at some point.”

_“Not_ here and _not_ in front of your girlfriend.”

“Polly.”

“This is just stupid,” she says hotly. “The typeface is shit and the column widths are shit and the localization is _shit_ and then you have to pull this absolute _bullshit.”_

_“Polly.”_

“I didn’t agree to your invitation just to sit here while your girlfriend flirts with my husband,” Polly says. “It’s just fucking insulting, on top of everything.”

What?

Howie stares at her, face scrunching in bafflement.

Chenscho looks between us, anxious. I stare ahead helplessly, eyes unfocusing. I’m out of my depths.

“I don’t... Didn’t you say-- Is she condescending or is she flirting? Polly. You aren’t making any sense.”

Polly presses both hands into the table. “No, yeah. Really great treat, Howie, after all the bullshit with the Bureau and Ingem and Oschwall and _Sofie_. Fucking thanks. This is the kind of night I want to have, throwing Wally into some awkward as shit restaurant double-date while some girl you’ve got zero chemistry with keeps giving him fuck-me eyes.”

_What?_

“Polly,” Howie warns, his hand half-way across the table.

I turn my head to catch her slipping out of the booth.

\- - -

“Look. It’s not that hard if you actually do the homework. It’s a classic reading assignment; I’ve had to do this exact one, like, four times.” She shoved her books to the side, pressing her pen into the corner of my paper. “This is stuff from two weeks ago. You were doing this stuff two weeks ago, I think.”

“I don’t know,” I mumbled. 

“Waldi.” She gave me a stern look. I wasn’t swayed. It only made me crawl further into myself. “You want to graduate, right? I want you to graduate. You’re _good_ at this stuff. You just freak out.”

Some incoherent nothing left my lips, voiceless. 

“I can’t do your homework for you.”

“I know.”

She sighed, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I just really want you to pass, okay? Once you pass this, you can go anywhere.”

“I’m not going to university,” I said.

She shrugged. “I mean anywhere. Just...if you ever want to go somewhere else in Argrea, you’re gonna need to be able to do this. And I know you can. I don’t know why you don’t seem to feel like you can, but you can. You’re pretty good at this stuff; you just really have no confidence and it screws you over.”

It didn’t feel good to hear that. Polly wasn’t practiced in artfully applying criticism. She always rammed through my defenses with a verbal battering ram, oblivious to the potential damage. She wasn’t wrong, though. I did lack confidence and it did screw me over. I had little desire to leave Kuk, though, so it didn’t seem like such a big deal.

“I seriously can’t read it, Polly.”

She sighed. “You _can._ Just _try.”_

I genuinely had tried.

“Is this about your future wife? It’s about your future wife.”

Verbal battering ram. Right.

She rubbed her face, grimacing. “You don’t want to _have to_ speak Standard. Because you think she’s Argrean.”

“Probably,” I murmured. “I’d know if it was someone Kolnoskan.” I felt I’d have been given _some_ indication, at least.

Polly shook her head. “You don’t want to talk to her. I get it. Okay? But that shouldn’t screw _you_ over.”

_I’m already screwed over,_ I didn’t say.

She tapped at my paper. “You can do this, Wally. And you should do it, but for you. Don’t think about that stuff.”

“I can’t help it.”

She sighed again. I hated seeing Polly becoming upset by proxy. She was a good friend and I didn’t deserve her at all. I felt more than a little ill. “This is for you,” she said through gritted teeth. “You’re _good_ at this. So just _try.”_

“I don’t want to,” I admitted.

Her face appraised me, expressionless. “Alright then,” she said. “I put a lot of time and effort into helping you get here. Do it for me.”

I turned my gaze to the paper, neck flushing. Something warm buzzed in my stomach at her words. I knew what that something was. I wasn’t a little kid anymore. “I-- I can do that.”

“Then read this for me.”

I cleared my throat, breath catching. Someday, I wouldn’t be doing this for Polly. Someday, I’d be doing this for some stranger. I was learning this for some woman who’d bought me, some woman who would take advantage of me. --No. Refocus. Right now, I was learning this for Polly. My friend, Polly. Polly wanted me to do this. I was doing this for Polly. She leaned forward as I picked up the paper.

“Um. Th-the...formidable valor of the Argrean state...as said by our Minister Piper, dic-tates that all citizens born on native soil must...ad...adhere to certain legal principles...”

\- - -

“Shoot,” Howie mutters. His eyes dart to mine, conveying a frustrated helplessness, before he clears his throat. “Hey,” he says to Chenscho in Standard. “Really, really sorry. She’s... Um, I’ve got to go see if she’s okay. Could you let me out?”

“Oh! Uh. Uh, yeah.” She slides out of the booth, standing as Howie gets out. “I hope she feels better.”

Howie sighs, waving to us as he walks after Polly’s trail.

Chenscho slips back into the booth, taking a tight breath. She laughs awkwardly as she waves a hand at the empty space beside her. “Siblings, right?” She smiles. “I was an only child, so I can’t say I know what they’re up to.”

“Ah. I too.” I swallow, trying not to feel naked on my left side with Polly’s absence. Howie’s trying to calm her down, though. That means Chenscho falls on me. “I mean, I’m one single child, too.”

“Oh! Wow. Single children unite. Ha ha.” She rubs her upper arm, a frown ghosting across her face.

“I apologize if this has been difficult,” I say. “I really don’t know what they are saying, although it’s Kukisch. Without regard, I think it was somewhat rude. So I apologize.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not us, right?” Her teeth fiddle with her lower lip. “I mean. I _hope_ it’s not us.”

“I think it’s them,” I say as kindly as I can. And it’s an honest response. I really do think it’s something between them. As always, the intricacies of the Hochsprachs continue to elude me.

“Well,” she starts, tone cheerful. “We can bond over how weird they are. Those Hochsprachs are certainly weird, aren’t they?”

Weird. Not my first choice of adjective, but she isn’t wrong. I think of Schotek’s tense lips under the streetlights, her cigarette bobbing between her teeth. “They’re...difficult to understand,” I concede.

“And that mother,” she continues, speaking easily. “She is a strange one.”

“Mm.” I find myself mute on the subject of Nene Hochsprach.

“I met her, last month. She looked me up and down.” She makes a motion. I feel my skin flush embarrassingly as her eyes run from the top of my head to where the table cut off at my abdomen to emphasize her point. “Like that. Isn’t that weird?”

Nene Hochsprach had looked at her like a cow at the auction. She’s historically been a shrewd businesswoman in all things. I’ll give her that.

“She means well,” leaves my mouth. I don’t even know if it’s true, but I say it anyway.

Chenscho shrugs. “You know her better than I do.” I’m not sure if that’s true, either. She takes a sip from her water glass. “I just don’t like how she talks to Howie.”

“Ah.” That’s understandable, considering Chenscho is from Sudorta. She probably thinks Nene Hochsprach is rude to him. 

“Is that normal in Kuk?” she asks. “Howie tells me it is.”

I almost offer a confirmation, but I hesitate. I don’t really have personal experience in that department, after all. I don’t know how mothers are supposed to treat sons. “I think so,” I settle on.

Her brow quirks, but she doesn’t say anything.

The diner woman stops by with food. She glances at our absences, but doesn’t comment, sliding the plates over. “Can I get you anything else?” she asks.

There’s an awkward moment, scant seconds that seem to stretch, where no one says anything.

“No, thanks,” Chenscho says, eyes on me.

With that, the diner woman leaves.

“Can I ask you some questions?”

I nod. “Sure. If I can answer, I’ll like to. Is something wrong?”

She fiddles with her fork, eyes downcast. Potatoes on her plate. I wonder if the other option was asparagus or green beans. “I don’t think so.” She laughs hollowly. “I mean. Obviously, right now there is. Polly going off and all that. But um. No.” She leans forward, voice low. “You grew up with them, right?”

I glance toward the rest of the diner. No one is looking at us. I don’t know. This feels like a secret conversation for whatever reason. I look at Chenscho. “Yes.”

“Is their dad dead?”

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that. “I, uh. Jun Dienschon?”

“Is that his name? Was?”

I glance away. No sight of Polly or Howie. “Yeah. Um. He’s dead, yes. Uh... I don’t know the words. He got very sick. You should speak to Howie about it, whether you want to know.”

She traces invisible patterns on the table. “He doesn’t talk about it.”

I swallow. “Ah. Then I should not said. Sorry. That’s his privacy.”

“I know,” she says simply. She looks up. “Their dad has a different family name?”

“Family name is by the mother.”

She hums. “So your mom is a Hoffenthal?”

My eyes dry on the absence, feeling the air slowly escape my lips.

“Sorry, was that a weird question?”

“Uh. No, I have my father’s name. My mother is dead. Um. Died before. When she born-- birthed me.”

“Oh.” Chenscho makes a noise. “I’m sorry.”

I shrug, turning my eyes back to her. “It happened a long time ago.” Is nineteen years long? I guess so, at least to me. It isn’t really something to which I attach much emotion. It isn’t even sad. Just a fact of my upbringing. “Um. Because she died, my father had me having his name, I guess. I’m not sure. I don’t think that it’s normal, but. That’s what happened.”

“You must miss her.”

That’s quite the assumption. I look at my cooling food. Number eight. It’s just spinach and crumbled cheese. It looks like goat cheese. Polly got me something she knew I’d be fine with. Something she knew I’d like. “Not really.”

Chenscho says nothing.

I probably didn’t offer an appropriate response, but I don’t feel like lying. Not about that. “The Hochsprachs were my family,” leaves my mouth instead, a half-formed thought that didn’t secure consent from my conscious brain.

“I feel like I know nothing about you guys,” she says. She gestures. “I mean. Kukisch people. But also you guys. Especially you guys.”

I could say the same right back. All of you people. Everyone, not just people from Bismaché or Ulmpon or wherever. Kuk, too. Polly.

“It’s just. Howie knows a lot about Sudorta,” she continues, idly scratching at her food with her fork. “We met in Sudorta; his best friend is Sudortan. But I don’t know anyone from Kolnosk except him. And you and Polly, I guess.”

Howie’s best friend. Ex-boyfriend. Right. Eresch. _So no one else knows. No one in the family knows._ I keep my mouth shut on the issue. That’s Howie’s business. I don’t know why, but it’s his business. There are lots of things I don’t want anyone knowing about me, after all.

I won’t tell anyone.

_That’s why I told you._

I don’t know why, but I won’t.

Chenscho sighs, offering a new smile. She’s full of many smiles, both natural and strained. “Have you met any of Howie’s friends?”

“I?” I shake my head. “No.”

“We should all get together and have a party. For your story! Sorry that this dinner has been a bust.” I don’t know what ‘abbust’ means. “I feel really bad; Howie’s really proud of you, you know? He thinks you’re a great writer.”

I fix my sight on the plate in front of me, food that smells good and is increasingly less appealing by the minute. “That’s very kind of him,” I say.

“It’s just how he feels.” She sounds strange, unhappy in a sense. “It’s not kind. It’s just how he is.”

I nod. “Howie is a good person.”

“Yeah. He is.”

This is the death of yet another conversation. We’ll sit in silence at this table for the rest of the night, staring at our uneaten food. Polly and Howie will never return, probably yelling at each other in the bathroom or something. Well. Polly yelling at Howie. I wouldn’t be surprised.

“Howie, um. Told me a lot about you.”

I stare at the food, skin cold.

“Like your marriage.”

My eyes lift, finding her frowning face. My throat burns.

“He said his mother wasn’t very honest,” she says. “Hm... I’m trying to think of a good way of saying this. In easy Standard.” She taps the table. “He says it’s complicated. And he doesn’t want to say more. But I can read between the lines. I mean, I know what he isn’t saying. That you’re unhappy.”

Are all Sudortans this frank? It’s extended beyond rude; it’s _baffling._

I don’t know how to reply to this. She just dumped a lot on me. Most of it isn’t her business. “It’s complicated.”

“Right.” She sounds unimpressed by my echoing of Howie, but not upset. “I guess I shouldn’t pry. He just always seems so upset when the topic of you comes up. So I guess I was nervous to meet you.”

Nervous? Why would she ever be nervous of someone like _me?_

...Well, how much does she know? What has Howie told her? Howie doesn’t seem like the kind to tell anyone. Howie knows way too much. Howie never told Ichma; I would have known if he’d told Ichma. Howie was _there_ for all of it, so he knows more than even I do. More than Polly does. More than anyone else could.

Do I really upset Howie? Am I upsetting? Is that why everyone avoided me for so long after the marriage? Am I just upsetting? Is it that simple? Do I upset Chenscho, too?

...Howie told me to keep a secret for him; surely he keeps secrets for me, right?

My stomach feels hollow. An old friend of an emotion. Dread.

“Why?” I ask.

She blinks, lips parting.

“Really, really sorry about that.” Howie’s voice turns her face away. He waves with a very polite, very fake smile. Polly stares ahead neutrally, walking behind him.

“Oh! Um. You guys were gone for a bit,” Chenscho says, giggling nervously. She stands up, allowing Howie to slide back into the booth. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” He looks ragged.

Frankly, they both look awful. Polly’s hair is a little wind-swept. I lean toward her, murmuring, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she says stiffly in Standard.

That’s. Awkward, I think. “Okay,” I reply in Standard. “Sorry.”

“Not in public,” she tells me in Kukisch. “We’ll talk after.”

“Oh.”

Howie sighs.

“None of us ate,” Chenscho points out, a nervous smile snapping across her face.

“That’s fine,” Polly says. “You should have eaten, though. We can eat now.”

Howie hums neutrally.

Chenscho gives her a weird look. “...Thanks?” she says slowly.

“Carol,” Howie mumbles in warning.

She glances at him, eyes flashing. Then she looks at me. _Weird,_ she seems to say to me. _Weird how?_ I want to ask. I just offer a helpless shrug, instead.

Polly’s knuckles brush against my hip. I swallow.

I can feel Howie’s eyes on me. Discomfort roils in my gut.

“Thanks for the permission,” Chenscho clarifies. “Allowing us to eat, now. I guess.”

_“Carol,”_ Howie says.

This has been an unpleasant night, overall. I glance between everyone. Chenscho, with her pursed lips. Howie, staring at some space past my head. Polly, picking up her fork with no further complaint.

I want to say something, but I’m not sure what. Maybe just: _Can we all act normal for one night? I really want to enjoy my food but it’s cold because we couldn’t have one normal night._

I don’t say that, of course. It’s a dumb thing to say.

So instead, I say, “Polly, you aren’t telling me something.”

She freezes, fork dangling in the air.

“Waldi,” Howie murmurs, reaching half-way across the table. His face is pained like all the pained faces of the men back in Kuk whenever I said something undoubtedly impertinent and idiotic.

“Oops.”

“’Oops’?” Chenscho echoes. “What did you say? Is something wrong?”

“I’ll talk to you about it after dinner,” Polly says, lowering her fork. “Not here. Not in front of them.”

“But we’ll talk,” I note.

“What’re they saying?” Chenscho asks.

“Waldi, I--”

“Shut up,” Polly interrupts Howie. He blinks, face blank. His jaw shifts slightly. He’s grinding his teeth, I realize. “I already talked to you.”

“Please don’t,” I say lightly, hand hovering over Polly’s arm. It doesn’t make contact.

“We’ll talk when we’re alone,” she says.

“We can just leave,” Howie says.

“Sure,” Polly replies. “Why don’t you do that.”

My body shoots up on trembling legs. They all stare at me. “Um. This has all been wildly inappropriate,” I murmur. “Poor behavior, all around. I’m. Leaving? I’d like to go.”

Chenscho stares at me blankly.

“Thank you for the good night,” I tell her. I reach down to clutch my coat. “I would like to leave.”

Chenscho opens her mouth, cocking her head. “...Oh.”

“Okay,” Polly says, after a moment. She stands up, sidling out of the booth. Her jacket slides over her shoulders.

“Right now?” Howie asks.

“Yeah. Right now. He wants to go. So I’m taking him.”

He frowns.

I nod. “Thank you so much.”

“Yeah,” Polly says. “Thanks for the food, Howie.”

His eyes narrow. He doesn’t say anything.

“It was nice to meet you, Waldi!” Chenscho chirps. “Oh! Um. You have our number, don’t you?”

“I don’t--”

“We do,” Polly interrupts me.

“Okay,” Chenscho says, smiling. “Call us sometime! I’m always home on the weekends.”

My bicep jolts under Polly’s fingers. Five points pressure clamped into my muscle. It’s so sudden, so tight. I bite my lip, nerves jittering. Holy shit. Holy shit. _Holy shit. Holyshitshitshitshitfuckshitholyshit_

Her hand relaxes quickly, smoothing down my arm, slimy and serpentine, brushing against my hand. “Sorry,” she murmurs.

Chenscho blinks, smile stuttering. Howie breathes out of his mouth, upper lip pulled slightly. He looks close to being angry.

“Bye,” I say, nodding again. “Thanks. Bye.”

Polly tugs me toward the door. “Really sorry about that,” she whispers. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

“I know,” I reply. Because I do know. I discreetly reach up to rub my bicep. (Holy shit.)

She sighs shakily, letting go of my hand as she grabs the doorknob. “Let’s just go home. I’m sorry.”

I shrug. She doesn’t see me shrug. That’s okay. I’m not sure I forgive her. My arm aches down to the bone.

Tonight has been _awful._

\- - -

“Just don’t talk to him!”

My feet stopped before the doorway to the classroom, ankles creaking. That was Polly’s voice.

“I’m your upperclassman, right? Just trust me on this. Don’t bother.”

That was definitely Polly’s voice. She hadn’t been outside after school had ended, so I came back inside to find her. Not that she _had_ to walk home with me, of course. She was under no such obligation. It’s just what I was used to and I was worried maybe something had happened. Apparently not. She was just caught up in conversation.

The setting sun painted the brown flooring dusty orange. My eyes fixated on the long shadows stretching into the hallway. Desks and chairs and window panes.

“He’s not your boyfriend. Lay off.” That was Trilla Regmonsch.

I blinked, eyelashes sticky. Definitely Trilla Regmonsch. She was my age. Her brother worked at the bakery and sometimes she brought in slices of oat pastries for us at lunch. She once gave me one with _uschpo_ paste and chamomile filling. _You like chamomile, right?_ she’d asked. I’d only nodded dumbly. I had no idea how she could have known that. Trilla Regmonsch was, undoubtedly, a very kind girl. I was lucky to have her in my class. I had, for the most part, kind classmates.

What did she have to talk about with Polly? I’d never seen the two so much as look at one another.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You think just because you’re a Hochsprach you can tell other people what to do? None of us are your property, okay? Get it through your thick head. I’m not even doing anything.”

“You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Nothing that isn’t crazy. Nothing inappropriate. Unlike you. You really think you’re subtle?”

“No. I don’t care, either. Just don’t bother with him.”

“He’s _not your boyfriend._ You know that, right? You’re delusional.”

Something clattered.

Silence.

“Holy... You’re such a freak,” Trilla murmured with a sense of wonder.

“You think you’re the first girl? Even Rega’s tried this shit with me.”

Rega was a few years above us. She’d graduated last year. A tall, gangly girl who always had her hair tied up. She was very nice, too. She offered to give me a ride home a few times. She used to drive to school every few days when her mother didn’t need the truck. I always politely declined. I really didn’t want to impose. I always walked home with Polly after school, anyways. Enough refusals and Rega eventually stopped asking.

I always thought Rega was a very cool girl, regardless. She was older and seemed a lot wiser about the world. And she always smiled at me. I liked that. I liked people who smiled at me. It always made my chest ache, a hollow pain that would creep up my body until it strangled my throat.

“You seriously think you’re dating him.”

“Trilla, just stay out of it.”

“He’s my classmate.”

Wait.

“And?”

“Polly, you’re crazy.”

I stared at the floor, mouth opening in thought. Wait. Wait. That wasn’t... It didn’t make sense. We only had two boys in our class. Bolko and me. Bolko was already with Katrin, from Losch-Mebach, a nearby farming town. Was Trilla seriously try to court Bolko, knowing that?

Maybe Trilla wasn’t as nice a girl as I had initially thought.

“You should mind your own business. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Trilla muttered something I couldn’t parse.

“Sure. Bye, then.”

That shocked my body, legs locking. Oh. I’d been doing an awful thing, hadn’t I? Spying. This wasn’t my business. I was old enough to know better, old enough to not have any great excuses.

I took some careful steps backwards. Several paces, until I was halfway between the front door and the classroom. My heart slammed into my ears, fingers curling at my sides. I smoothed them on my pants, propping my shoulder against the wall in a feigned casualness. That was casual, wasn’t it? The boys in books leaned against walls. _Oh, hey there, Sumé. Didn’t see you there. Me? I’m just waiting for the bus._ Lots of cool, demure dialogue that I didn’t have at my ready disposal. I wasn’t a good speaker. Or a good liar, for that matter.

I didn’t lie to Polly, anyways. I would never lie to Polly. But I could afford to twist this a little, couldn’t I? _Oh, I didn’t hear much. Is Trilla in trouble? I thought I heard your voices, but I didn’t want to pry._ Something smooth like that. Yeah. It would have to work.

It would have to work, since Polly had just turned the corner. She stopped, eyes on me. I blinked, idly tapping a shoe against the ground. “Ahm. A-Are we ready to walk home, now?”

She swallowed, not moving.

I stood away from the wall, thumbing my pockets. “I didn’t see you outside, so I... Um. Thought I’d wait inside. In case you were inside.”

She sighed, walking toward the door. “Come on. Let’s go.”

I turned on my heel as she passed, scrambling after her. She held the door open for me patiently, expressionless. She couldn’t have been too mad if she was still walking with me, right?

“What did you hear,” she demanded as soon as we were on the steps.

“Ah? Hear?”

“You heard us, didn’t you?”

“I did,” I had to admit. “Um. I heard Trilla Regmonsch and you talking, I think? Something about a boyfriend. I--” Then it came out, pathetic and guilty, “She’s trying to date Bolko, isn’t she? I thought I heard that. Sorry, I. I tried not to hear, Polly, I just. I was worried, since we always walk home and you weren’t there and I didn’t know where to find you and I... I...”

Polly didn’t say anything.

My heart slowly sank, misery tucking it under its tongue. “I’m sorry,” I said weakly.

“Oh.” She started, as though my words had just processed. “It’s nothing. You think Trilla’s trying to get with Bolko?”

“I. Um.” I scratched my neck, feeling my eye twitch. It was a disgusting sensation. “I just heard she was trying something inappropriate, I guess. It was very good of you to care about it. But ah. I’m sure that’s Bolko’s business.”

Air puffed from her lips.

“Sorry,” I said quickly.

“It’s fine,” she replied easily. “I should have told you I was staying behind. That’s my bad.”

“It’s fine,” I parroted, fevered. “I should have just waited. I trust you. I should have just waited outside...”

“Not a big deal.” She cracked her knuckles on her right hand, then her left. The popping sounds sent unpleasant frissons through my skull. “Seriously, Wally. It’s totally fine. I would have done the same. Trilla and I just had some issues. Not that that’s surprising.”

It wasn’t surprising. Polly had made it no secret that she disliked Trilla Regmonsch, despite never talking to her. Polly didn’t seem to like any girls our age. Even young women. She got very defensive for whatever reason. Maybe it had to do with being the Hochsprach heir. I was sure that involved a lot of pressure and responsibility.

Polly didn’t put up airs with me, though. We were simple, together. We told each other anything. I hadn’t lied. I was glad I hadn’t lied. It was a relief.

It was always better between Polly and me when we didn’t have secrets.

\- - -

“She pisses me off.” Polly’s body vibrates as we stand behind the restaurant. I feel her breath puff past my ear as I stare at the dimly lit alleyway, trash scattered in a corner.

“She seemed nice,” I murmur.

“Sure.”

“Why does she piss you off?”

She sighs, stepping forward.

“I thought you were rude.” The intense awkwardness of the social situation Polly foisted upon me sits rancid and bitter in my stomach, loosening my tongue. My arm hurts.

“Mm.” She doesn’t argue.

“She wasn’t flirting with me,” I say flatly.

She eyes me. I can feel the anger radiating off of her. My insides wobble at the sense. But I’m right. Polly can be...so strange about certain things. This is something she’s always been weird about. Other women. For whatever reason.

“She’s engaged to Howie,” I point out. “They seem happy.”

“Doesn’t mean she can’t...” Polly trails off, rolling her eyes. “Whatever. Maybe you’re right. It doesn’t matter.”

It does matter, though, doesn’t it? Because it upset Polly that much. I _am_ right. If anything, _Chenscho_ was worried about her position with _Howie_. For whatever reason. (I can imagine the reason.)

“And you’re mad about something else,” I say, eyes picking through the garbage.

“The story,” she says. “Right. Let’s not beat around the issue.”

“Okay.”

“This place sucks. That’s all.”

“I thought you said we wouldn’t beat around?”

She rolls her eyes. Then her expression settles into something discomfited and cold. The air is clammy and stinking in this space, gaping between us in the silence. I hear a car drive by, there and gone, its headlights casting a cold glow across Polly’s body. She looks so uncertain, fingers curled at her sides, eyes on the dirt.

“I just want to protect you,” she says thickly.

_You never have,_ I don’t reply. My arm pulsates.

“Oschwall meddled with the translation. I mean. All of Free Press did. Is that shocking? It’s not shocking, right?” She kicks at the ground, frown settling. “I don’t know why I was shocked.”

“He said they would,” I point out. “Edits, I think he called them.”

“The story’s integrity is totally shot.” She looks up. “Howie noticed. He’s blaming _me._ As if I didn’t fight them the whole way for this thing.”

I hum, watching her step toward me. That wasn’t the only reason Howie was upset, tonight. He seemed to have a few reasons. Maybe more than a few. Polly made up more than one, for certain. Howie is reticent at the best of times, though. I wish I were half as discreet with my feelings.

“It pisses me off,” she breathes, hot air fanning across my face. Her chest rises and falls quickly, cheeks coloring. “They fucked up your story. They always do this. They don’t appreciate you at all. It pisses me off so much, how they can't see. None of them can.”

She does seem mad. She also seems like something else. A sensation squirms in my gut, issuing a feeble warning.

“Wh-when I think about it, I just get angrier,” she continues, not sounding angry at all anymore. More distracted than anything.

The air between us has no oxygen to spare.

“Ah.” I swallow, sand in my throat. She’s very close to me. Polly isn’t bigger than me, but it feels like she is. She has a larger presence, I suppose. Maybe that’s it? Or something else.

“You okay?” she asks.

Is that a proper question to ask? I don’t feel like ‘okay’ is necessarily a binary. I feel okay and I don’t feel okay. I don’t know what I’m feeling. Nervous, I guess. Is nervous okay or not okay? Nervous is tolerable, I think. Things can be differentiated into ‘tolerable’ and ‘intolerable.’ I suppose if ‘okay’ is ‘tolerable,’ then it’s a much simpler question to answer.

“Waldi.”

My eyes focus on her face. She’s just looking back at me. “Yeah?”

She frowns.

“You’re very close,” I note.

“...Yeah.” She lifts her hand, hovering in the air. “Do you mind?”

_Do you mind?_ What a funny way to ask. It sounds so polite and formal. “I don’t mind,” I confirm, a weakness in the bend of my throat.

I don’t _think_ I mind.

She presses her hand into the juncture between my neck and shoulder, fingers digging into the taught muscle. They don’t hurt, this time. Her eyes are trained on the point of contact, rapt. Her tongue traces the outside of her lower lip, leaving it slick with spittle as it withdraws. In the dim light of the alleyway, she glistens.

“Polly...” I murmur without thought.

She takes a short breath, eyes flicking to mine. “Can I kiss your cheek?” she asks, voice husky.

I blink, my fingers knotting in front of me, taking one another hostage for a moment of contemplation. My mind is empty, though. I have no real opinion. I don’t think so, anyways. My arms drop to my sides. “Yes,” I say. I’m surprised to find no tremors inside my body, no terror at the idea of Polly’s mouth on my face.

She leans forward slowly, lips slightly parted. Her shampoo smells nicer on her, better than just sitting in its bottle. A slimy guilt rises in my intestine, thinking about fumbling in the shower. It only happened once. Twice? Once and a half. Three times, maybe. I don’t know. Gross.

“You okay?” she asks, her breath fanning against my face. My thoughts melt and trickle down my brain stem at the heat.

“I am okay,” I affirm. Tolerable.

“Okay,” she whispers.

Her lips are soft against my skin, pressing into the high bone of my cheek, just below my left eye. It’s wet, warm. Short breaths puff out of my mouth. Her hair slides out from behind her ear, a curtain falling over the side of my face. My eyes slip shut.

And it’s over. Just like that.

My face is wet and cold. I feel strangely absent.

Not bad, though.

“I’m sorry about grabbing you, earlier,” she says throatily.

“I know,” I murmur, blinking. I can feel the wetness on my cheek shift with the slide of my skin. I know she’s sorry. Polly always tries to be so careful with me, even if she sometimes fails. This is all still so new. My skin feels cold and tacky. Not bad, though. Really not bad.

“Do you want to kiss me?” she asks.

I breathe in her breath. It’s hot and smells like toothpaste. I feel a little light-headed. I frown. “I don’t know how to kiss.”

Polly just laughs a quiet laugh. Her hands are so warm over my biceps. She could grab me tightly and try to wrestle me onto the ground. She could try to shove me into traffic or smack me. But her palms are soft, thumbs rubbing into my coat sleeves like she enjoys the texture. No tight fingers.

“I just like being close to you,” I admit quietly.

Polly doesn’t say anything.

I close my eyes again. She’s near me, radiating heat. My heart is hammering against my breast, snarling. This shouldn’t be a big deal, right? This shouldn’t be a big deal. No. We’ve been married for two years. We’ve known each other for much longer. It was a kiss on the cheek. My stomach aches, though, knotted and queazy.

“I don’t know how to kiss, either,” she breathes.

A laugh flutters out of my mouth.

“Wally?”

“I don’t want to kiss you,” I say. “But thank you. That was very nice.”

“Was it?” She sounds guarded.

“I think so.”

“You’re not sure.”

“I’m not sure if I’m sure about anything, to be honest.”

She shakes her head, lips downturning.

Air between us. Cold, rushing air. The wind whistles through the absence. She stepped away so quickly. No words.

“Thank you.” I swallow. My mouth is hot and slimy for some reason. “Um. Thanks for that. I just need a little air. But thanks also for checking in. And... It’s just complicated, isn’t it? I’m not very experienced in these things.”

“Me neither,” she says. “I just don’t want to hurt you.”

_You haven’t_ almost leaves my lips but my teeth snap it up before it can exit. She has hurt me, is the thing. But never in this way. Or-- No. It really is complicated. Because Polly smells nice and she’s pretty and I... I think I want to be close. But it’s also sad. I also feel sad.

She sighs, a heavy sound. Her lips are shiny, still wet.

I really don’t want to kiss her. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the residual pain. Maybe it’s just inexperience. Sometimes, things are simple. They can be. I know I’m too desperate for that, though. I shouldn’t trust simple explanations. I don’t want to kiss Polly and I don’t know why. I don’t want to interrogate it.

“Sh,” she murmurs, face close. I blink, eyelids shuddering. When did she get close? “You think too much, you know that?”

“Yeah.” My mouth feels loose and uncoordinated. Rubbery.

She steps away again, shaking her head with a deep-set frown. “Come on. I want to take a shower and go to bed.”

“Sure.”

“We’ll get the next train and we’ll be home in half an hour. So let’s move.”

Okay. Sure. I think too much, it’s true. This is simple. Go home. Polly’s apartment. Whatever she wants to call it. I wipe my face as she walks onto the sidewalk, a buzzing sensation beneath my skin.

\- - -

“Why weren’t you given your mom’s name?” Polly asked me, snapping into a bulb of fennel.

“Polly,” her mother chastised, pulling the truck into drive.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Um. Should I have my mom’s name?”

“Everyone gets their mom’s name!”

_“Polly,”_ her mother said.

“Sorry,” Polly said. She didn’t sound sorry. She stared at me, chin propped on the top of the passenger seat, eyes raptly trained on my face.

I curled over my knees in response, fingers creeping over my knees. My back bumped against the back wall of the truck, the knobs of my spine twinging from the abuse.

I was young, of course, but I could admit even then that I felt a distinct absence. Somewhere. I wasn’t sure if it was a mother-shaped absence, however. It was such a wide, gaping absence, larger than a single person. Maybe mothers were larger than single persons, though. I had no concept of the importance of mothers.

“My mom is dead,” I informed her, leaning my head against the cool wall of the truck.

Polly blinked, looking at me without comprehension.

Her mother sighed. “You said a very inappropriate thing, Polly.”

“I didn’t know!” she cried. Which was true, Polly didn’t know. I didn’t blame Polly for not knowing that my mother was dead. I never knew my mother, after all, so it felt more as though she had never existed to begin with.

The Efflers had once sympathetically told me that she was in the afterlife. The Ulmàk had told me that she was a ghost. My father seemed to believe the Ulmàk more than he believed the Efflers. He wouldn’t had made the Ulmàk come over so often if he didn’t believe the Ulmàk more.

_Does she appear at night, through the window, watching me?_ I’d asked the Ulmàk. _Will she hurt me?_

_No,_ he’d said. _And no. Well. Probably not. You can never know for certain with ghosts. That’s why I’m purifying the perimeter. Just hang tight indoors and don’t unsettle the dirt for a few days._

I didn’t think she was a ghost, though, and I didn’t think she was in the afterlife. I really thought she didn’t exist at all. I really thought that I’d sprung from my bed, fully formed, when I was born.

I idly considered creation myths, the moon drawing itself from the empty spaces in the night sky, mountains giving birth to themselves, the ocean spilling from its own mouth. I wasn’t anything important or cosmic in any sense, but I felt as though I could lay claim to a similar origin story.

“But why don’t you have your mom’s name?” Polly asked.

_“Polly,”_ her mother murmured.

“I don’t know,” I said. “You’d have to ask my dad.”

Polly’s nose wrinkled at that. My father was a sore point for the Hochsprachs, for whatever reason. He was my trump card. I could end any conversation simply by mentioning his existence.

“Your dad is weird,” she said.

_“Polly!”_

Although her mother seemed horrified, I found myself captivated. Polly had a wobbling frown, broadcasting her distaste. She was always so full of expressions. After living alone with my father for so long, I couldn’t help but find her...also weird. Weirder than my father, definitely.

“You’re weird,” I replied softly.

She blinked, face smoothing.

Her mother let out a short laugh. Polly didn’t say anything for the rest of the ride. She didn’t turn back into her chair, either. We just looked at each other.

I wondered if I liked her weirdness more than my father’s weirdness.

\- - -

“I get so horny when I’m mad.”

I discreetly choke on my spit, vision wobbling on the train tracks. Polly folds her arms, pouting as she toes the line on the platform. She looks like an offended child.

“Wildly inappropriate, I know,” she says, unapologetic as ever. “But it’s true. Wow, I fucking _hate_ Free Press. We’ve got to get a new publisher. Maybe international.”

I knock on my chest, dislodging liquid from my lungs. “Whatever you want, Polly.”

Her eyes narrow. “You really have no idea what you’re offering.”

“Whatever you want with _publishing,_ Polly,” I bite out, neck prickling. I rub at my arm, feeling sour and weirdly embarrassed.

“You never have to do anything you don’t want to do,” she says flatly.

“I know.” I’m not sure.

“But maybe we should re-examine our agreement.”

“Huh?”

“With Free Press. There’s a Villichian market that could make a better offer, I bet. More creative control and better revenue cuts.”

I seriously don’t know anything about Villich. If that’s what she thinks, then fine. It means nothing to me.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” she says.

“It’s _fine,”_ I say.

“I shouldn’t have done it.”

“I let you.”

She shrugs, eyes sliding to the side.

Sometimes, I think Polly’s terribly immature. Maybe it’s being the firstborn girl. Maybe it’s being a middle child. Maybe it’s just her. I don’t know. I don’t think she does things _thoughtlessly,_ necessarily, but I don’t think she fully considers other people. Well. She considers people, but not with total empathy, I guess. I’m not really sure what I’m getting at.

Tonight was a slow-motion disaster.

I clear my throat again. “...Chenscho really didn’t do anything wrong. You shouldn’t have, um. You shouldn’t have been like that to her. I don’t think.”

She rolls her eyes.

_“Polly.”_

“You’re right. Okay?”

I frown.

She sighs, looking at me. “You are. But she didn’t understand anything I said, anyways.”

“That’s rude, too.”

“What? Talking about her when she’s right there?”

“Talking about her when she can’t understand you.”

“Is it really?”

“Yes,” I say, a tension eating at my voice.

She looks at me. Her eyes trail down to my shoulders, considering. They stray to my arm. I watch her face smooth out, lips pursing. “Yeah,” she says softly.

I swallow back a question, glancing to the side. Polly doesn’t expand on her agreement. I don’t ask for her rationale. That’s the end of that conversation. Which is fine. Tonight has been exhausting. I’m done talking for a while.

The ground rumbles in warning, pebbles clacking against the concrete. Our train is coming. I lean forward to gaze into the tunnel.

Polly’s arm extends in the air ahead of my chest, corralling me away. She doesn’t say anything. I step back, feeling the earth vibrate beneath my shoes.

The crowd of people is thinner this late at night; there are only a few trains left leaving the station tonight. There’s still a crowd, though. Cities are like that. They’re full of people. Howie once over-stuffed a doll for Ichma and when he tried to sew it back up, the stitches on the arm snapped and the insides tumbled out.

Cities are just like that. Over-stuffed dolls, seconds from splitting open.

I catch a pair of eyes further down the platform, past the crowd. They’re fixated on me. It’s hard to see in the low light, but an unsettled sense pricks at my skin, seeming to say: _That’s a familiar face._ I don’t recognize it, though. It’s too dark. 

Regardless, someone is definitely looking at me. I raise my head to get a better view. Our eyes meet.

The train settles, exhaling loudly.

I blink and the face has blended into the crowd.

“Waldi.”

“--Um. Coming.” I turn to find Polly entering the train car without concern.

I glance behind me one last time as I board, eyes raking over the crowd. I don’t see anyone I know. The feeling doesn’t leave me, though.


End file.
